The Art of War
by Plastic Cello
Summary: Sequel to The Theory of Entrapment. The world has fallen into peril and it is up to the Earth's Mightiest Heroes to prevent it; although much of the responsibility has fallen haphazardly onto Tony's shoulders. Slash.
1. Prologue :: Dead Souls Dreaming

**The Art of War**

Prologue

(Dead Souls Dreaming)

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**Author's Note:** Well, here is the sequel to _The Theory of Entrapment_; this story will be fairly different in comparison, and with a darker theme no less. But I hope you like it and that it lives up to your expectations (or lack thereof).

This story was loosely inspired by _American Gods_ by Neil Gaiman; or at least a few themes will be implemented in the future chapters.

Reviews are always welcomed.

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The land was desolate, abandoned. He knew not where he was; but it suited his sensibilities quite well. The smog-colored sky that stretched to infinity, the bedrock charred by fire, and the forest of gnarled trees framed uninhabitable land; only ravens circled overhead, as if they too could sense their kin in god-flesh, which was only rouse after all.

For he was neither god nor giant; he was only darkness. Darkness given a solid, physical form; he, the harbinger of death, the prophet of mayhem; and mayhem he brought. He could still smell the blood in his nostrils, could feel rivulets trickle from his fingertips and onto the jagged earth that strained to pierce the soles of his leather boots.

The elements, however, could not penetrate him. His armor and leathers, onyx and the dullest of silvers that was almost black, encircled him in a fervent embrace; it clung to him, and became an extension of his body.

His helm rested beside him, the same dull silver as his ornaments; its horns sloping forward harshly until they curved backwards at a deadly angle. He recollected a similar helm that he once possessed, and having lost it to mortal hands. But he hadn't an affinity to gold any longer; gold was light, and he knew no such light.

Everything was to be dark; there would only be madness in his wake. His only desire was to satiate the wicked beast that slumbered within him now. And oh how it purred, as the blood colored his hands, as he had taken the life that had been his since birth!

His twin was no more; he had extinguished that flame, which had always been his right. Had he not been sought after so fanatically, mayhap he would not have come to such an epiphany; mayhap the truth would remain locked away beyond his grasp until his final breath.

It had been the will of others to contain his darkness. It was the All-Father, such a cowardly fool, who tried to deter the inevitable. But fate did not fancy being deterred; fate only fought viciously until its purpose was fulfilled. Fate fought until the levee could withstand no more, and the flood of its will was brought forth upon its retractors.

Fate did not like to be delayed; darkness could not remain forever enslaved either. Darkness could not meet death, without an understanding and a compromise that both agreed to. He could not die, not until the flames licked and danced across every realm; not until blood coated him from head to toe, and the sweet essence of death for every living creature had been fulfilled.

The art of war had to be mastered, before the restoration of peace could be fulfilled. Peace was only achieved through evil; although he found himself disinterested in anything beyond his blood lust, his need to seek and destroy. He only desired to see destruction, for every realm to fall apart. And he would cause it; he would gladly see to the chaos that coursed through his veins.

But he would bid his time; the Aesir were certainly in a panic, all-consumed to have his head. He did not underestimate them; he knew they would come for him, and that could not be. Not until his children were free to do as they pleased.

Indeed, there was a method to his madness. He hadn't lost his higher faculties; he was keenly aware of what would cause optimal destruction, and what inevitably would bring forth his goal sooner than through sheer, blind chaos.

The Aesir would remain safe from his wrath for now; the other realms, however would not be so lucky. And if he were to listen to the perpetual cacophony in his head, the rhythm of the war drums, he knew which realm that should receive his attention.

His personal vendetta, a slate yet unclean, from his previous lifetime (although it was not so long ago) urged him to Jotunheim. The frost giants' dwelling, which birthed him and abandoned him; it was the place of reckoning. It was the birthplace to the darkness that had consumed him; the darkness that defined him, unlike the terms of old in which he was known for.

Lifting his helm between his gloved hands, he smiled grimly and looked above at the still circling ravens. He watched their flight, the trajectory that was graceless and mathematical. Even in places of unknown origins, abandoned by the living and dead alike, he was still found.

"Huginn and Muninn," he enunciated darkly, before raising his right hand to trace their flight pattern; his fingers swept the air inelegantly, before he closed his hand into a fist.

The twin ravens abruptly ceased their movements, bending and contorting into themselves with a sickening crack of bone. With a twist of the hand, he tore them asunder; squawks of anguish echoed along the barren land, which was eventually painted by blood and feathers.

The mangled forms of Odin's cohorts followed the pathway to the bedrock, and moved no more. They would not say a word of his whereabouts; not when his plans had been decided upon. He would take and he would give, and he would no longer be a relic for the All-Father to use or to abuse.

He walked leisurely to the point of impact, and observed how easily they had broken; much like how Brother Baldur had broken. His lips twitched at the memory, before crouching down for a better look. He set his helm aside, reaching for one of the ravens and taking it into his possession. He turned its body to and fro curiously; the fragility of such creatures was beyond compare, and he was incapable of not testing it further.

His fingers twitched, only stopping once he wrapped them about the raven's neck and twisted until it let way. Blood dribbled from the neck and spilled across the leather of his trousers and boots; but he was much too interested in the head that now was a separate entity from its body.

"How easily they break," he uttered, before smiling. "But it would do me no good if I allowed you to reveal my whereabouts. I have much to accomplish, and I cannot have you sullying my plans! Jotunheim awaits its rightful king!"

Without further ado, he dropped both head and body, and took up his helm once more. He fitted it onto his head, consumed by the need to maim and destroy. The beast roared for satiation, for mayhem on a grandiose level; it would not be satisfied by the deaths of birds.

Oh no; it craved genocide, and it would not quiet until Jotunheim had fallen and the frost giants' heads were erected on pikes. _He_ would not be satisfied until he accomplished such a feat.

His lineage would no longer deny him; no one would ever deny him again. Chaos was a force to be reckoned with, and he was the bringer of it; he would make every realm fall, terrorizing them until they sobbed brokenly for a savior that would never come.

Brother Baldur was dead, after all. And he was the only one to remain; he that was once called Loki, but no longer had a name or any purpose beyond the mayhem that consumed him entirely.

He would see to the fall of many, and he would watch the world burn.


	2. Chapter One :: Lose Your Soul

**The Art of War**

Chapter One

(Lose Your Soul)

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**Author's Note: **I have to admit I've been really overwhelmed by all the positive reviews; I really wasn't expecting people to be that receptive to the prologue, but it makes me very happy that so many people have been! So I have to thank everyone for all the kind words; it means so much to me!

Just to let you know, each chapter is named after a particular song that I was inspired to write to; the prologue was "Dead Souls Dreaming" by Diary of Dreams, whereas this chapter "Lose Your Soul" is by Dead Man's Bones. :)

Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter!

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It had been twenty-eight days; twenty-eight days of unrelenting hell. No one could truly say they related to Tony Stark on his better days, let alone the many where he'd drunk himself under a table, destroyed quite a bit of Tiffany crystal, and ended his tantrum furled at the back of his walk-in closet, sobbing like a child.

No one could understand what hell felt like, until everything you loved was taken away from you. Even if he caused much of his own problems, Tony didn't feel the pain any less. In fact, it was the opposite; his guilt made the pain that much more intense.

He wandered the hallways of the mansion, pausing at every doorway as if he could find what he'd lost in between the furniture, or behind the doors. Maybe if he rummaged around enough, he'd find Pepper with her Stark tablet balanced on her knees, schmoozing away to the board of directors; maybe she'd give him that mirthless smile, which always meant they were fighting her tooth and nail. And maybe just maybe, she'd let him take the Bluetooth away from her ear, and sweep her into his arms.

But the reality of the matter was that he couldn't find anything in his wanderings. Everything had been replaced by heavy silence; every room was empty and unlived in, aside from the farthest guest room whose door was frequently shut.

He never went into that room, and he was never invited into that room. Sometimes as he stumbled drunkenly into the kitchen, he'd catch a glimpse of his unexpected roommate. She never belittled him as he reached for another swig from his glass; hell, she didn't even say an angry word when he'd lain supine on the floor. She had only stepped over him, and suggested he stay still until the vertigo released him, and disappeared once more.

Tony, admittedly, wasn't used to people allowing him to self-destruct. Pepper would have taken his alcohol stash and thrown it all away. He'd have been checked into the Betty Ford Clinic, before he could even sober up enough to realize where he was. But this, this was new.

The only person who had shown him any concern had been Rhodey. Rhodey had called on the fourth day of his downward spiral, and came close to visiting on the sixth. He'd tried on the tenth to convince Tony to come along to Hawaii to clear his head, while he dealt with top-secret government business on Hickam Air Force base. And yet the allure of a drunken stupor won out; mostly because he couldn't bring himself to explain what had happened.

Rhodey was one of the least judgmental people Tony knew. It was probably one of the many reasons why they still retained their friendship for so many years. Tony oftentimes did stupid, criminally stupid things, and Rhodey would only glower, tell him to get his shit together, and let the dust settle since Pepper would be there to fix everything.

But without Pepper, Tony had been in free-fall mode for twenty-eight days. Twenty-eight drunken and incomprehensible days; where he did little, except for drive (in his briefest moments of lucidity) his new roomy to the spot where the supposed tear in space had been; and each time it was discovered that it had indeed been closed shut.

Even with the potential of trying to open a tear in space dangling in front of his face, Tony couldn't pull himself together and mask his pain with his well-known genius. He should have tackled the opportunity to open a portal between realms; it wasn't like that sort of thing happened every day. And yet he could only drive back to the mansion, and repeat his self-destructive behavior all over again.

Today was particularly bad; it was the first time he dreamt of Loki. Much of his mind had been consumed by Pepper's loss, because the loss was familiar in a way that Pepper was. But his mind had done a good job on minimizing anything related to the god of mischief.

That was until today; it wasn't a life altering dream though. He'd been in the middle of arguing with Pepper over astrophysics of all things; and sitting cross-legged on Pepper's desk had been Loki, although it hadn't been Loki even if he resembled him. He didn't know why his mind supplied that odd bit of information, aside from it being a side effect of drinking that much alcohol throughout the day (and night). But that had made the dream that much more insufferable; because when he called his name, the god didn't acknowledge him whatsoever.

No matter how much Tony yelled, Loki would not respond aside from smiling twistedly; and even then that smile wasn't directed at him or Pepper. It was a secret little smile that he couldn't explain, and what inevitably made the dream into a nightmare.

"Have you had your fill yet?" His roomy abruptly appeared in his peripheral, and he would have kissed her out of relief if he had any coordination to do so. "Or will you forever drown your sorrows?"

"Why are you concerned now?" He grunted before eyeing her. "Unless you want me to be perfectly sober once we get naked and become the two-backed beast."

"I have dealt with harsher words from surlier drunkards than you, man of iron," the warrior goddess returned, which explained why she was so unaffected by his drunkenly falling around. "You haven't known true horrors until you've been stuck in a pub with your fellows after a successful campaign."

He regarded her carefully, while supporting his weight on the kitchen counter. He wasn't as drunk as he would have preferred; but then again there really wasn't a point where it could wipe away all his memories. Not all the alcohol in the world could stop him from thinking about Loki now.

"It's been twenty-eight days," Tony licked his lips, deciding the inside of his glass was far more interesting to look at than a green-eyed, perky breasted goddess. "It's been almost a month since, well, you know."

"And you have been given such a time to mourn," Sif extracted the glass from his hand, on the verge of it being violent. "Now you will listen to my concerns, and you will take me to your leader."

"Oh god, you really are a fucking alien," he barked out a laugh. "Take me to your leader, really? You are something else."

"I demand to speak with the man, who had captured Loki,"

"And you think I have access to Nick Fury, after the hell I've caused? Well, sweetheart you'd be mistaken; since I've been blacklisted and quite frankly I am not sober enough, or will I ever be sober enough, to want to chit-chat with Nick willingly."

They glared at one another for several uncomfortable seconds, until Tony was hit by a bout of dizziness which was common after so many drinks (but the precise number eluded him). He rested his forehead against the back of his hand, while blindly searching for the decanter he knew was somewhere close-by.

"Sir Jarvis," Sif announced, which stopped his search immediately. "Please display the many things that I have researched during the period of your master's insufferable drunkenness."

_"Yes, right away, Lady Sif," _Jarvis responded like he would to Tony himself; and that was not right. It wasn't right at all.

"Jarvis," he looked up as several screens simultaneously began to appear in front of him. "Has something funky happened to your programming, because the last time I checked you only listen to me or…you only listen to me. And that doesn't look like me at all."

_"Twenty-two days ago, the Lady Sif asked if she could peruse my capabilities; you agreed enthusiastically, so long as she ceased to hold your Macallan bottle hostage." _His AI returned, still opening several windows of text, which Sif was already swiping through as if she was an avid techy instead of an alien Viking that wielded a pointy stick.

"So this is what you were doing in your room?" Tony watched her, almost fascinated by how familiar she was with his tech.

She didn't readily reply, as she continued to shift through the many screens, and even reached out and crumbled one up and threw it into oblivion. He couldn't imagine anyone from wherever she was from perusing any technology; since both Thor and Loki didn't even seem remotely interested in it. But maybe it was just the macho guy thing; even though Loki had been far from the stereotypical Viking type.

"I have been trapped on Midgard for a very long time, man of iron. And you proved to be no help whatsoever, so I chose instead to attempt and traverse your _technology_ in order to either find another tear in space. Or in the very least, gather information about what has befallen your realm." She explained, before rotating a screen towards him, so he could read the text.

"And you taught yourself how to use all of this on your own?" He asked; trying not to sound impressed and little turned on; although his pending inebriation made it impossible to hide.

"Sir Jarvis explained much of it to me, which I am forever indebted to him," she said, smiling up at the ceiling as if Jarvis was actually a person hidden in the air vents.

_"Lady Sif is a very quick learner, sir," _Jarvis sounded almost pleased; and god if they were having a weird sort of tech-alien romance, Tony was just going to shoot himself.

Rather than even go down that road of obnoxious questioning, he instead squinted at the text Sif had wanted to show him. It was a report from the New York Post, describing the strange lightning storm that had left much of the city without power for days. Not to mention, the unexplained phenomenon of how the sky turned red and stayed that way for six whole days.

He dismissed the article, before turning around another screen before Sif could do it for him; his pants wouldn't forgive him if he let her play with his tech, with that pouty look on her face on top of it. The second article was from the Chicago Tribune, which spoke of a similar scenario; and the third and the fourth were exactly the same too.

Once he pulled up a German newspaper with several colorful images of the sky, Tony glanced up at Sif who had crossed her arms over chest in a mixture of smugness and worry. They really hadn't spoken about that night when she'd first arrived at the mansion; and he didn't even think about kicking her out, once she reappeared with the sob story about the tear in space being closed; and her attempts at contacting the gatekeeper Heimdall was unsuccessful.

"Well, what is this exactly?" He asked finally, feeling a bit more sober than he had beforehand.

"Do you recall what I had told you, once we left the confines of your home?" She swiped her hand over the screens, clearing the space in between them.

"Yeah, you said that Baldur was dead," he said, noticing how her face scrunched up, undoubtedly by his pronunciation of the guy's name.

"There have been ever-present murmurs within the courts of Asgard about Lord Baldur and Loki," She began. "Many were silly ponderings from gossipers. But no one could deny the peculiarity of their relationship, or lack thereof."

Tony frowned, feeling that uncomfortable ache in his chest again. He didn't have much insight on what went on in Asgard, which made his knowledge of Loki so much smaller than he would have liked. Thor only spoke up to defend Loki, but he never divulged in any, truly, personal information about his brother. Hell, Thor had neglected to mention he even had an older brother.

"The All-Father had ruled that Lord Baldur had to stay away from Loki," Sif continued, looking strangely uncomfortable. "Lord Baldur was far older than either Thor or Loki; he was already at war beside the All-Father's side, while they were only god-children and merely playing war.

"But his fascination was evident even then towards Loki. I oftentimes spied upon Lord Baldur watching us play in the meadows and training yards, his eyes only devoted to Loki. Despite being forbidden to come near, he sometimes braved the distance between them; and oh how Loki was frightened of him."

"It's hard to imagine Loki being scared of anything or anyone. Or even being a kid for that matter."

"He was a gentle child," she admitted, her mouth down-turning into a frown. "Therefore, he was victim of many jests from Thor and Fandral."

The Loki Tony knew so well, definitely wasn't some wilted flower. He was the god of chaos, who killed people for the fun of it. He was a vicious son of a bitch, which didn't translate into fear and weakness; even though Tony suspected he was inherently weak and wary on the inside. Because they were similar, and Tony was known for erecting walls around himself too; although his walls were arrogant, loud-mouthed ones instead of homicidal.

"If I might continue," Sif spoke again, and he motioned for her to proceed. "The courts were abuzz by Lord Baldur's unhealthy fascination with his youngest brother. He looked less like the kindly god that he was, and far more like a predator. Lady Frigga was always close-by to shield Loki, particularly when Lord Baldur returned from the battlefields."

"Lady Frigga?"

"Aye, their mother,"

"Okay, let's back up a little. You're telling me this Baldur guy was really great, but had a pedo-incest-love for Loki?" Tony asked, already feeling his stomach churn in disgust. "And everyone knew about it so Odin and Frigga tried to keep him away? But he'd pop up anyway, and was hyper-revved up after coming back from killing shit, like revved up sexually?"

Several emotions clashed across Sif's face; maybe she was reliving some of those uncomfortable moments she'd witnessed, or maybe she had a wild imagination like Tony's, and was now conjuring up the worst images on the planet.

He felt his stomach churn yet again, and prayed he wouldn't have to vomit in the sink. He'd done that once and conveniently all over Pepper's favorite china set, that she'd put in there to clean (since it wasn't dishwasher safe); and well there was no salvaging it after that. Or at least neither of them wanted to salvage it.

"No," she finally spoke again, catching his eye. "Lord Baldur was always jovial and kind-hearted; but he became ruthless while faced with Loki. It was as if he was possessed."

"Are we talking about the same guy? I mean the first thing he did when he saw Loki was that he hugged him. He didn't attack him; and sure his smile was creepy as hell, but he wasn't exactly making it known that he hated Loki." Tony pressed his hand to the arc reactor, temporarily closing his eyes and remembering that stupid single tear that rolled down Loki's face.

His throat suddenly tightened, struck for the umpteenth time today that Loki was dead. And there hadn't been anything he could do to prevent it from happening. Loki had willingly gone along with his supposedly psychopathic brother, and the aforementioned psychopathic brother was dead too. But its correlation to the recent happenings, which he conveniently missed since he'd been drunker than a skunk, was still a mystery.

"Lord Baldur appeared to know of his affliction when it came to Loki," Sif began to fidget. "He never physically harmed him; although there was a great concern, particularly when he was much younger, that he would."

"Okay, but what does this have to do with all these lightning storms," he swiped his hand and brought up the news articles in an uncoordinated bundle. "Unless Thor is in mourning, I really don't see how the two even correlate at all."

Sif reached up, coming close to brushing Tony's hand, and made quick work of tossing out screens, until she paused at a fairly large image of the sky. She turned it around for he could see it better, but even then he wasn't sure what he was supposed to see. He wasn't an astronomy enthusiast; the only time he did look at stars, was when he was enjoying a late night run in his suit.

"I have been by Thor's side for centuries, and this looks nothing like the lightning that Mjölnir can conjure,"

"Son of a bitch, that looks almost black," he squinted again. "I don't know how I didn't notice that earlier. But you know – emotions. Except that still doesn't explain how you knew about Baldur's death. I mean you couldn't have gotten a telegram in a five minute interval."

"Thor said you were a man of science," she began, clearly uncomfortable. "He said you seemed skeptical of magic. So you very well be skeptical of what I am to say next. I could sense something was amiss, and once you'd mentioned Lord Baldur, I understood."

Tony was indeed very skeptical; who wouldn't be if someone linked two separate events, without any cold hard facts behind them. For all they knew, psychopathic brother Baldur was alive and kicking; in which case, whatever conclusion Sif was trying to come up with, really was all kinds of bullshit.

"Let's say you're right, because hell yeah I'm skeptical even if I am a little drunk, so what does this have anything to do with it? Baldur croaks and then electrical storms happen because of it; and they aren't caused by Thor either. Well, color me confused."

"Ragnarök," Sif said with such conviction, Tony could only stare at her.

"Ragnarök,"

"We do not know what will be the cause of it; only the All-Father and Heimdall are knowledgeable to this. But there have been murmurs that the sky would split open, red and angry; and that the Aesir would recognize the on-slate internally."

"Okay, let me get this straight, partially drunk mortal on board," Tony again felt very much sober, despite how many drinks he had had. "You're telling me the Viking apocalypse is going to happen? And there's nothing we can technically do about it?"

"Not so," Sif looked annoyed. "Ragnarök can be prevented. We only must find the harbinger and we must kill him."

Tony slowly nodded, before he reached for the abandoned decanter an arm's length away. He knew he felt far too sober for the circumstances; and quite frankly he preferred that he'd been so incredibly drunk that he couldn't even remember the fact that he gave her access to Jarvis.

That's what he wanted to be his default mode – complete and utter drunkenness. He was also starting to suspect that Sif had stolen some of his liquor for her own needs; unless she found his pot, which would explain it too.

"Right, let's find the harbinger of the apocalypse," he nodded again, before walking away from her with a skeptical look on his face. "You know right after cocktail hour."

"Man of iron," she called after him, but he was already heading upstairs to drink in peace; and maybe not blubber by the time he emptied the decanter.


	3. Chapter Two :: Kingdom of Greed

**The Art of War**

Chapter Two

(Kingdom of Greed)

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**Author's Note: **I'm not quite sure how I feel about this chapter; I can't say I'm too thrilled with it, but I think it inevitably had to be written to carry onto bigger and better things. So I hope you enjoy it nonetheless.

The chapter title was inspired by the song "Kingdom of Greed" by Diary of Dreams. And at some point I'll make a playlist available (although uploading all the songs might be impossible at this point).

* * *

Body upon body lay in his path; blood pooled and turned almost purple against the frigid, ice covered ground. Limbs scattered every which way, separated from their rightful owners; and large heads with missing eyes dotted the landscape, decorations on pikes, as if to greet the true heir of their fallen king.

Snow flurries swirled unforgivingly around him; his cape whipped about, exposing the skin-fitted leathers which were far more akin to a body suit than separate pieces. Mayhap it was infused onto his flesh, since he felt neither cold nor the blows that had been administrated by the largest and strongest opponents that had attempted futilely to defend and protect.

But how could such barbaric beasts feel? How could they care for their brethren, when they were only and truly monsters? He knew of the frost giants; he knew of tales of their ferocity. And he knew what it was to have been one of them (if only briefly).

Monsters could not feel; they were monsters for a reason. Blue skin, red eyes, and unexplained grooves that decorated their bodies in ceremonial patterns; it was the flesh of his flesh, the blood of his blood, and he had destroyed them.

He belonged to no one anymore. He could not be claimed; and the remaining frost giants he allowed the privilege of life, watched him with loathsome looks. For they could only see an arrogant Aesir; no more than the Aesir could only glimpse upon a frost giant.

The last remaining frost giants kneeled before him in uniformed lines; there were several hundred whom surrendered after the havoc that had ensued, once he appeared on their icy terrain. Murmurs had momentarily rendered them useless; they had recognized him, son of Odin they said; prince of Asgard they continued. Although they had been mistaken; they knew not who he was.

They were beasts, of course. They could not discern light from darkness, savior from destroyer. And yet they knew of his capabilities; they knew he could bring forth fire onto their realm. For frost giants easily burned; he had witnessed it, and he was the cause.

He paced before them, staring into the blue oblivion that was their home. It would do well to be brighter, which could be made possible if only their self-appointed leader chose to attack. He hadn't any qualms of destroying every last one of them; but the alternative would prove nicely for both of them.

The wind whistled in a high-pitch whine, as if it was the sound of Jotunheim's pending demise. He paused in his motions, only to turn and face the legion with the grim faces, and the murderous intent in their blood-red eyes.

Somewhere in the recesses of his mind, he recollected standing upon the frozen earth, with both fear and anticipation deep in his chest. This was the place of many beginnings; and it would soon be another one for him.

"Do you not see what I am capable of?" He gestured widely with his arm, directing the remaining frost giants' eyes upon their fallen brethren. "Do you not recognize that you are at my mercy?"

The silence was deafening; not a single utterance, a grunt or growl escaped his audience. For they knew it was the truth; they were at his mercy, every last one of them. And it was inevitably their choice to die a warrior's death, or to live to see another day.

Despite the common belief that frost giants were dull, boorish creatures; they proved that such a thing couldn't be any farther from the truth. They remained cemented on their knees, staring at him expectantly; although there was no way to mask their hatred that they felt towards him.

"I could see to Jotunheim's very demise," he grinned, before conjuring a small black flame into the palm of his hand. "And yet I am allowing you the opportunity to save yourselves."

He closed his hand, extinguishing the flame, and watched the silent exchange between the frost giants. They looked to their leader, the largest giant of the pack whose face had been scarred from previous battles. The hatred was wild in his eyes; he could not hide it, or perhaps he didn't care to.

The leader slowly rose to his feet, towering over him easily. Lesser beings than him would have cowered; but he hadn't any fear. Fear wasn't an emotion that was within his grasp; only madness, so deeply seeded was within his realm of understanding. And he knew that he could kill, disembowel perhaps, such a creature without a concerted effort.

"We know of your moniker," the giant snarled. "You are Odinson; Loki, the god of lies."

Outraged roars suddenly sprang up from the hundreds; the noise was deafening, albeit it was almost melodic compared to the unexpected static within his own head. Voices of unknown origins whispered, hissed, and yelled; each one overlapping the last, creating an orchestra of white noise.

It matched the frost giants' chants of distrust, so loud and thunderous that for the briefest of moments, he swore that the volume would very well rupture his eardrums, if not steal his last fragment of sanity; before it slowly ebbed back into silence with a crystal-clear voice that sounded familiar and yet completely foreign.

_"I'm here now; I'm not going anywhere."_

Unexplained rage overcame him; it flared and shot through his veins, until all he could feel was maddening, all-consuming, everlasting wrath. It coiled around him, attempting to suffocate him, but he forced himself out, fighting tooth and nail; until he finally broke out on the other side.

"Enough!" He roared so loudly, that his voice carried across the barren landscape, and echoed across the jagged ruts of ice. "I know not of who you speak of, and you shall do well to remember that!"

As if to counteract the excruciating heat within his body, the familiar but foreign feel of growing frost spread along his skin, and enveloped him entirely. Grooves arose along his once smooth skin, which quieted the fanatical frost giants into a stunned silence.

"I offer you salvation, you dull creatures! And if you are any wiser than your fallen comrades, you shall listen to my offer, or I shall set this whole realm aflame!" He declared, before conjuring up another flame, far larger than the last, in the center of his palm. "This shall be your fate, to burn to cinders!

"Do you think I am jesting, or have your brethren's deaths meant so little to you? Are you the monsters that the other realms claim you to be?"

"We are not monsters," the leader finally spoke, severe and unwavering, despite his questionable fate.

"Then prove it! My offer stands! Join me to rise against the Aesir!" He raised his voice once more. "I shall allow you to think it over; but do not try my patience. I shall be within the fortress that is rightfully mine; for I have shown my strength against your mightiest warriors, after all."

He did not bother to wait for an appropriate response; he spun on his heel, approaching a valley flanked by jagged-frost covered crags. Farther into the valley was the fortress that had once housed the royal family. It was craved from the mountain-face, huge and foreboding; although it looked properly abandoned as if even the war-hungry frost giants could not forget their previous king.

Without any hesitation, he strode into the barren fortress, and into the awaiting darkness. The darkness which suited him so well; it chased the blue from his skin, replacing it with the paleness that seemed so appropriate for a bringer of death.

Icicles and stray snow littered the entranceway; broken bits of what was furniture was strewn about, as if looters had slipped in, undetected by the loyal. He kicked several pieces of debris away from his pathway, studying the deepest of blues that encompassed much of the hall, and which was reflected so entirely throughout Jotunheim.

His steps echoed commandingly across the cracked floors, as he explored the depths of the ice fortress. There was very little to see; what should have been a regal structure was only a hallowed and depressing space of nothingness. Mayhap the All-Father pillaged much of the wealth to be had.

"_As he had with you, little prince,"_

He paused; those words interwove into the chaos in his mind, although they were not spoken by the same phantom voice beforehand. It was an internalized recollection, spoken by a voice that could have been known to him at some point, and yet the likelihood that he would ever discover whose it was, was improbable.

The corners of his lips crooked up, and he smiled a twisted little grin; had there been any frost giants in his path, he would have ripped them limb from limb. After all, they were guilty of abandonment; they had birthed such wretched darkness, and wished for its slow, cruel death.

The All-Father however eventually ascended with such darkness and bade his time. And fate curled its inescapable hands around what used to be, before plunging it into this form; this figure that was both wholly knowledgeable and utterly ignorant. But mayhem was the only thing that mattered.

He continued through the mangled halls, taking very little into consideration. This kingdom had fallen long ago; but this realm still was lively even in its depression. There were still many to slaughter, many things to destroy; and his fingers twitched and ached to unleash the flames hidden within him.

However, preparations were key if Asgard were to fall. The frost giants were imperative; despite his many strengths, his abilities would certainly be strained if he attempted to take on the Aesir without assistance. By no means, would he continue such a partnership (if it were to come to fruition) once the Aesir were maimed. Oh no, he would make quick use of the frost giants soon thereafter as well.

Deeper within the fortress, behind heavy and ornamented doors, stood the throne room; it held very few luxuries as the rest of the space. The dais and throne were chiseled from crystalline ice, large and jagged as the crags and precipices that surrounded the entire realm.

There was very little variety to be had; although the frost giants were not known for their creativity anyway. But it was a fine throne room for the limited resources at their disposal; in fact, he rather liked the dangerously pointed edges that encompassed the throne.

He walked slowly to the dais, before climbing the steps. The throne was much too large to accommodate him properly; but that didn't deter him from lowering into the hardened seat, and feeling a ripple of both satisfaction and disgust.

It felt both proper and improper. Had things turned out differently, would he have ascended to the throne in the icy tundra that was Jotunheim? And would he have fallen underneath the heavy weight of a hammer, which would have certainly shattered his bones?

Would his blood have run purple along the fortress's blue floors, before the hammer wielder would take the remaining pieces of his body, and throw them into the abyss? He had an inkling, a macabre one, which pointed to yes. Yes, he would have fallen in some way; due to the fact that monsters always fell.

He, that was both darkness and madness, was cloaked in monster flesh. He was a beast, a devil that deserved only the sweet lucidity of death. And the Aesir would ensure it, may it be from this lifetime or another.

_"Besides you're all I got now."_

That voice, it returned again.

He furrowed his brows, but only the echo of familiar words remained. He hadn't any recollection whatsoever of whom had spoken such words; and yet he felt that there was some significance to it. And that only proved to infuriate him further, and aggravate the unyielding beast inside of him.

Such words meant little to him; no words could mean anything to him. Whether they were spoken by the All-Father himself or the lowest of dwarves; their significance was terribly unimportant. They only served as an irritation, an itch that he could not possibly be scratched.

He shut his eyes, lulled into the quiet before the storm. The calamity inside of him, calmed until it needed to be called upon; and he supposed that it would be needed soon. The frost giants could not keep him waiting forever; he would not allow them to dawdle so apparently. He would see to every last one of them dead, set aflame and dancing to his flame's melody.

He would not be denied again. He would not be undermined by stupid creatures of ice; their primitiveness was only good for conquering, and they would be wise _not_ to turn against him. Not when he held Jotunheim between hands that sought vengeance for a lifetime's past.

Expectedly there were faraway sounds, somewhere within the fortress's halls. It was footfall, thunderous steps that might very well bring the entire structure down around them. Soon the steps drew closer, and drew his attention from his disjointed ponderings.

The last remaining frost giants stood in front of him; their defiance was palpable still. He tilted his head, willing their leader to vocalize what they had decided upon. The leader stepped forward, teeth bared as if he would like nothing more than to rip his throat out; but instead of attack, he kneeled before the dais in dejection but surrender.

"We shall join you," the leader spat out, pinning him with infuriated red eyes. "If only to see the Aesir fall. But do not believe we shall not raise against you, for the genocide you have committed, former prince of Asgard."

"Oh, I wouldn't have it any other way," he grinned viciously. "In fact, you shall have your chance at me yet, Jotun. However, if you attempt to before the Aesir have been defeated; I shall make the travesties that I have committed this day seem like child's play. Rest assured you haven't invoked the true extent of my wrath yet."

"And you haven't seen ours either, little prince," the leader spat icily in return.

"As I said before, I am not who you speak of," he glowered, before leaning inward. "I suggest that the memories of whoever you think I am, be banished from your simple minds. Because I am no more a prince than you are; I am no more Aesir than you are. I am no one."

Slowly he rose from the throne and stepped down onto level ground. All eyes were upon him, angry red slits that followed him in hopes of finding a weakness to take advantage of. But none of them attempted such a foolish feat; they only watched him in disdain, as he paused before their leader.

"I shall return in due time," he inclined his head. "I have much to accomplish before I enact my plans for the Aesir. But do not be mistaken, I will be watching you; and if you attempt to betray me, I will make death look like a luxury. For I will skin you inch by miserable inch, and I will lop off your appendages one by one. And I will keep you alive until my anger has subsided. Do you understand me, frost giant?"

"Aye," the leader returned, but in no way less vicious than beforehand; dull creature, indeed.

"Very good then," he grinned brilliantly. "I have much to do yet, in brighter places than this abyss, I'm afraid. I rather like the idea of Midgard; so do excuse me for my abrupt departure. But I thank you and yours for your hospitality."

With a snap of his fingers, he dissipated from the throne room, out of Jotunheim, and into the quiet between realms. Although he remained in the nothingness for only a short interval of time; after all, he had much to do in order to enact his plans. And Midgard would serve his purposes just fine.


	4. Chapter Three :: Division

**The Art of War**

Chapter Three

(Division)

* * *

**Author's Note: **I have to say I really enjoy writing from Nick Fury's point of view; every chapter written from his perspective always comes a lot faster than most (although Loki is a close second).

Anyway, I want to thank everyone who reviewed; the last chapter wasn't a favorite (to say the least), so I'm glad some of you enjoyed it though. :)

And the song for this chapter is "Division" by Android Lust.

* * *

It started like many things did, unexplainable but relatively harmless. Lightning storms had struck much of the country at the same time, which caused major power outages from New York City to San Francisco; but it was a problem easily remedied by government intervention.

SHIELD hadn't any invested interest in eccentric weather patterns; and they only had a vague curiosity when it came to astronomy and the state of the sky. They could have attempted to study both incidents, had they not been dealing with internal affairs, and the nightmare that was left behind in the wake of the god of chaos teaming up with Iron Man.

But Nick Fury deemed research into both events to be unnecessary. FEMA and NASA were already appointed to handle things, and as far as he was concerned there wasn't a need for a third agency to get involved. It wasn't their division, after all.

Alien invasions, caped super-villains, and a combination of the two was what SHIELD dealt with best; not to mention, they had their hands full with trying to track Tony Stark's activities, since he had been temporarily labeled as compromised. And the last thing they needed was for Iron Man to become an enemy, even though Nick would only be too happy to take him out at this point.

So really it wasn't much of a surprise that SHIELD remained neutral on both fronts. That is until a large chunk of Hong Kong went up in flames a little over a month after the initial events. But it wasn't just any attack that had drawn their attention to it; no, it was that much of the city had been covered in black flames, so hot that it leveled buildings in a matter of seconds.

Close to four-hundred people had been killed; although the number was rapidly rising as the days passed. The Chinese government was keeping much of the information to themselves; although SHIELD had a tendency to get around impenetrable obstacles and gather intel nonetheless.

"Boss, I've gotten word that the Tuen Mun district was been struck sometime this afternoon," Agent Coulson strode into the conference room, drawing Nick's attention from several rambling news reports with a bad video feed.

"How bad is it?" Nick kept his eye on the screen in front of him.

"The worst yet; there might not be any survivors this time around. But we won't know for days, even with our sources on the ground."

"That makes four districts already hit,"

"And the situation is only progressing further," Coulson returned in his clipped, unaffected tone. "I think we should send them; I know they've been itching to get off the base, especially since they missed all the excitement last month."

"And I bet they both have been campaigning for the opportunity, am I right?" Nick asked, finally turning off the news feed.

Coulson smiled, shrugging but clearly indicating that indeed they had been. Of course, those two would get antsy after milling over paperwork for a month, when they could be out in the field instead. And he swore if he had to hear another Budapest reference, especially recently, he was going to shoot them both.

Besides it wouldn't hurt to have two of SHIELD's best agents on the ground. At least, Nick could trust that they were actually receiving accurate information. He wouldn't have to second guess his sources, which weren't exactly aligned with them anyway.

"I have to figure Barton is waiting outside the door," he crossed his arms.

"He's more impatient than usual, yes," Coulson affirmed with a nod. "Then again, I think it's justifiable. He was thoughtlessly; his words not mine, overlooked to handle the many interrogations involving Mr. Laufeyson."

"Thoughtlessly, my ass; he would have killed him before I could get any sound information out of him. Even though that exploded in my fucking face in the end, thanks to our residential jackass, Stark,"

That was a touchy subject still; as far as he was concerned, it would probably remain a touchy subject until he died from a hernia brought on by Stark. Since it was Stark's homoerotic fascination with a vengeful god that inevitably caused twenty-three good people to die; and well, he had yet to get Laufeyson's head on his desk which was only pissing him off further.

"If need be, I'll handle Mr. Stark," Coulson said, which was a pretty sound suggestion in comparison to throttling him to death; or shooting him alongside Barton and Romanoff. "But I already made it a point to get in touch with Miss Potts. She has since left the residence, after she became aware of Mr. Stark's further involvement with Mr. Laufeyson."

"When did this become the Young and the Restless, Coulson?"

"Mr. Stark's libido coupled with Mr. Laufeyson's apparently good looks was a bad combination from the beginning, Boss. Not to mention, Agent Barton and Romanoff's inactivity has led to their shared restlessness."

"Very funny," Nick muttered.

"The young part stumps me though; after all, we're dealing with two forty-something year olds, and a thousand year old Norse god."

"A thousand year old Norse god who still has a head," he scowled, since he'd actually believed those Aesir bastards would live up to their end of the bargain; and because Stark was flitting around Malibu without any chains, he should have had Loki's head by then.

However, that was the least of his concerns at the moment. Hong Kong was still on fire and the number of casualties was continuing to rise. And with the slow return in information, he really needed to get Romanoff and Barton onto the field again; which, in turn, would save an iota of his sanity.

Unfortunately, Stark was still consuming the last bits of sanity he had left. Even though Stark had been in hiding, he was still constantly reminded of what had happened. Agents he had interactions with day in and day out, now were only a distant memory; and it burned his ass that Stark was oblivious to the problems he caused, and was sitting pretty in his multi-millionaire dollar mansion.

"Bring in Barton," he motioned towards the door. "And find Romanoff, and tell her to get to packing; unless she joined the vigil outside the door too."

Coulson crossed the room, before opening the door, and motioning for Barton to come in. He was followed by Romanoff, who was clearly as antsy as her partner was. They regarded him quietly, as if they hadn't pulled Coulson into their plans to convince him to let them go to Hong Kong.

Both their faces were masked into well-trained nonchalance; although Barton had a harder time covering his wanton anticipation compared to Romanoff, who was a picture of casual, if not entirely bored nonchalance. But he knew them both well enough, to realize they were itching to go on a mission; although the level of excitement was questionable at best.

"Agents Romanoff, Barton," he greeted them, before motioning for them to take a seat at the abandoned conference table.

Neither of them objected, taking seats side-by-side which was typical. They worked in sync, a well-oiled machine that had taken surprisingly little time to become that functional. Murmurs had it that there was more it than met the eye; but Nick chose to ignore it altogether. He didn't care about the personal affairs of his agents, unless it caused a threat to national security.

Taking the seat at the head of the table, Nick regarded them both, particularly Barton. Barton had recovered fairly well after his unfortunate run-in with Loki; and Nick hadn't anything to fear in terms of his capabilities. Even if there was a concern, Romanoff was only too adept and willing to fix the problem accordingly.

"It's been a slow few months," he began, leaning against the table to make eye contact with them. "And I know you're itching to get out there again. But let's be honest, if I do send you to Hong Kong, it might not be what you're looking for."

"I'd feel better on the field than playing paper pusher," Barton shifted in his chair. "You know, with all due respect."

There was evident annoyance in Barton's body language, which was to be expected. Nick had made it a point to keep him away from Loki at all times; although he already began to regret it. Surely, the threat of a war between Asgard and Earth was a bunch of shit. Considering, it would be akin to Earth attacking Asgard if they'd gotten to Dr. Doom before they did.

Then again, he was glad he didn't risk pissing off the god of war; even if it meant Stark was enjoying his freedom as he had beforehand. National security outweighed even his personal vendettas; and unlike Stark, he was able to keep a hold on his emotions for the most part. Anger didn't count.

"I guess you have two options then," he lifted two fingers, and already knew which option they would pick; he wasn't stupid, after all. "The first option is that you can go to Hong Kong, and try to find out any information about these unexplained attacks. I figure our sources are holding back on us; and it wouldn't really be that surprising, since we are dealing with the Chinese government.

"Your second option is that you can mosey on over to Malibu, and keep your eyes on Stark. I know you have a history with that, Agent Romanoff. So you might be the best equipped in that field; although Barton you might have an equally good time to say the least."

Barton smiled tightly, which contradicted Romanoff's cool calculation. There was a lot to be said about their reactions; but Nick knew they mirrored one another's, despite their contradictory outward appearances.

"I mean if you want an arrow through Stark's eye, I'm your man," Barton crossed his arms over his chest, exchanging a look with Romanoff. "But I mean if you want him in one piece, your best bet is to let me go to Hong Kong."

"I think having Barton and I on the ground would be more suitable, than if we were to keep an eye on Stark. I imagine there's very little he's hiding at this point, since Loki is no longer on Earth." Romanoff finally spoke in a controlled manner, which Nick even found admirable.

Romanoff also had a point; keeping an eye on Stark was pointless at the moment. The only thing he could be doing, aside from cursing SHIELD and Nick alike, was that he was improving his inventions. And while that was something to fear, particularly if Stark decided to go the way of villainy, Nick figured it was pretty much harmless until the signs pointed otherwise.

He also figured that Coulson could convince Pepper Potts to drop by, and make sure the idiot was still in one piece and not donning a cape and ram horns; or something equally ridiculous. Then they would eventually pick up their surveillance, once the probability of Stark returning the field became a reality.

"I haven't a problem with that," he finally said, which caused Barton to visibly relax. "Now, I don't know what is going on, but with the fluctuating number of deaths, it feels like some dumb fuck with a superiority complex is running rampant. I haven't heard much about Doom's activities of late, so let's keep an open mind that he's graduated to total and utter destruction, you know instead of just blowing up shopping districts across Los Angeles."

"So the probability that these events are linked to those electrical storms is actually high?" Romanoff began slowly, as if traversing a field filled with landmines. "And maybe Doom, who has been known for his magical abilities, could have done something that inevitably caused all of this?"

"Agent Romanoff, I wouldn't put anything past him," he shrugged, catching Coulson's eye. "There have been weirder things that happened. And quite frankly if Doom is the cause of it, I expect you two can easily handle the problem without too much effort."

"Goddammit, I am sick of all this magic bullshit," Barton muttered, swiveling in his seat until he knocked into Romanoff's, who sent him an icy glare. "I mean, I know we handle the unexplained, but this is getting ridiculous. What are we in the X-Files?"

"Better than the Young and the Restless," Nick grumbled, before he stood. "Now you two need to get ready; Coulson just informed me that Tuen Mun was attacked, and there doesn't look like there are very many survivors; which makes me wonder if the other three districts hit actually even have survivors at this point."

"Our knowledge is limited at best," Coulson affirmed, holding up the manila folder he'd walked in with. "So it'll be imperative that you record everything. And I do mean everything, Agent Barton."

"Of course, I mean I've gotten so familiar with paperwork over the past few months, I think I'm a pro at it," Barton rolled his eyes, while pushing out of his seat.

Romanoff was already on her feet and walking away, by the time Barton had gotten up. He trailed after her but paused at the doorway. He turned around and looked at Nick like he had something to say, but didn't know how to go about asking it.

Rather than allow him to dangle in limbo, Nick motioned for him to speak; which was exactly the push he needed. Or so it seemed; because Barton cleared his throat, before opening his mouth, and then quickly closing it again; as if he was questioning himself for not following Romanoff's lead.

"Is there something on your mind, Barton? Because I have a feeling Romanoff isn't going to wait for you forever; I'm sure she's itching to get in a quasi-jet and head out before the end of the hour."

Barton looked sheepish, sweeping his eyes from Nick to Coulson and back to Nick again. But really there only seemed to be one thing that could cause this reaction from Barton and Nick prepared himself for some uncomfortable questions; although his face remained neutral, just not quite as neutral as Romanoff's had been.

"It's about Stark," Barton said lowly. "Rumor had it that he was under Loki's control."

"Rumors do tend to fly, even in an organization that touts secrecy," Nick returned grimly.

The truth of the matter was that Stark had been anything but controlled by Loki. Despite the god of mischief saying otherwise, Stark had all but shattered that alibi. And it was only proven further by Stark's willingness to lead several other gods into headquarters to rescue Loki.

"I mean if that were the case, you know," Barton shrugged half-heartedly, looking between Nick and Coulson again like he had several moments beforehand.

"Well, all signs point to that," Nick furrowed his brow. "But we can't be entirely conclusive about it."

Maybe it was the puppy-dog look Barton was giving him, or maybe he realized that Stark would inevitably have to rejoin the Avengers initiative for better or for worse; in which case, it was better that everyone could get along. Either way, Fury lied through his teeth; and he normally only lied to protect SHIELD's best interests and definitely not some motherfucker with a kink for chaos gods.

Barton visibly relaxed, before offering a sincere little smile; he slipped out the doorway, and left Nick with Coulson's easy stare. It was also a bit unnerving, especially when it was unblinking and so damned cutesy.

"Have anything to say, Coulson?" He finally met his eyes, and came close to scowling at that damn smile.

"You lied to protect Stark," Coulson said. "That was very thoughtful of you, Boss."

"I didn't lie to protect Stark. I lied to keep Barton from killing Stark."

"You lied for the better good, and not simply for SHIELD's benefit. That was very admirable."

"Shut the fuck up, Coulson," he scowled then. "You need to get in touch with Miss Potts, and see if she's over the heartbreak yet in order to check in on our asshole in an iron suit."

"Yes, of course, sir," Coulson finally left, but there was no denying that smile was still intact; as if Nick had really wanted to protect Stark from all the bad PR that would result from the knowledge, that he aligned himself with a well-known super-villain.

"Motherfuckers," he muttered, deciding he rather not think about the whys behind his lie; not right now anyway.


	5. Chapter Four :: Potions

**The Art of War**

Chapter Four

(Potions)

* * *

**Author's Note: **First and foremost, I wanted to thank everyone who has reviewed thus far. I've been questioning myself quite a bit when it comes to this story, so to know people have been enjoying it really means a lot to me. So thank you (again)!

As for this chapter, this is the second version; the first was far different, and well not as good. But I liked this turn-out a lot better, and that's why it took a bit of time to actually get this out. Although posting daily will probably be a stretch nowadays, unless I'm entirely motivated to do so.

* * *

_The devil bent my ear today  
About his magical elixir  
That would  
Make the sorrow go away  
Help me forget I'd ever met you_

**"Potions" **- Puscifer

* * *

Sanity wasn't necessarily imperative; Tony had always thrived in his own chaos, and really hadn't any use for order. Order felt constrictive to him, as if a noose was being knotted around his neck. Normal, lucid minded individuals were okay with routine, with following the social norms on which to act; but Tony had always fought authority tooth and nail.

So really was it that surprising that he'd spiraled into his own self-induced mania? He marched to the beat of a different drum, and sleep and eating weren't a necessity. Drinking certainly was; and he couldn't even estimate how many drinks he had that day, let alone the ones he had that evening.

There were too many to count; always too many, but never enough. He found out early on, there was never enough to white-wash his mind; memories always had a way of remaining intact, while his basic motor skills were easily compromised instead.

He took a healthy swig from the wine bottle he'd been carrying for the past half hour. He'd grabbed it before dragging his pathetic carcass upstairs to bathe; since he really couldn't remember the last time he had, and well the obstacle of standing and washing reared its ugly head pretty quickly. It was a miracle he returned into the bedroom in one piece.

The oversized towel hung loosely on his hips, as he downed another gulp, and observed the ocean view that had really sold him on the location. Usually that would have been enough to ease some of his tension; but even that perfect view, couldn't overwrite how fucking miserable he really was.

Everything was a reminder of how things were, before his life went topsy-turvy. Pepper's memory was like a tiny ghost, which trailed him from one room to another. Stupid, insignificant things reminded him of her; the throw pillows in the lounge, the cubist painting above the fireplace, and the unnecessary bed-skirt that rounded the California king in the master suite.

Her memory was everywhere and refused to be chased away with scotch, vodka, beer, wine, or even margaritas. He self-medicated to the nines, pumping anything into his body that might ease the pain; but there wasn't anything on planet Earth that could do that.

Some memories, very few but some were enough, were muted when he was completely inebriated. Some of the more sentimental things grew hazy; although there was very little consolation in that, especially when other more foreboding memories took their place.

Pepper memories were significantly higher in number than Loki memories. However, the sheer volume of Pepper's was oftentimes trumped by the intensity of Loki's. Loki memories were anxiety-ridden, fear-mongering, pleasure-riding snapshots, which generally made Tony feel out of sorts.

Loki memories were crisp and vivid. Smells were distinct, colors were brighter, and the enunciation of each one of Loki's words was audible even in his alcohol fuzzy mind. The memory of long fingers dancing across his body, of cool and persistent lips against his own, was unbearable.

So he drank more, since there was nothing else to do. He couldn't turn back time, couldn't tell Fury to shove it when he inquired about a consultation; couldn't tell Pepper to shove it either (which he wouldn't anyway) when she called to remind him about it, while he was in the middle of upgrading the suit's repulsors. And he couldn't have asked Happy to drive him there, even though he'd offered; but instead, he'd chosen to take his new toy for another test drive.

Things could have been different; they could have been the same. He'd have been oblivious to Loki's return to Earth, and SHIELD would have played it hush-hush when it came to his execution. No harm, no foul; life went on uninterrupted.

It could have been that way; it really could have. Tony could have been contented, instead of taking swig after swig from a wine bottle, and letting his eyes roam to the one place in the whole room he didn't want them to go. But even his basic functions were against him; since he couldn't possibly redirect his gaze anywhere but on the ornamented box beside the bureau.

The gold box gleamed mockingly at him, as if willing him to look inside; if only to reemphasize what he no longer had. Maybe he never really had it to begin with. No one could own Loki; Tony wasn't exactly sure that Loki even had much control over himself, as he led others to believe.

In a variety of ways, Loki was a prisoner to his past. Whatever happened to him had inevitably enslaved him to the places, the people that had scarred him so significantly; to the point where he had tossed himself into pure and undiluted insanity. Which was similar to Tony in several ways; but while memories from his past were unforgettable, they didn't dictate his daily life anymore (unlike his current trauma).

Tony learned, somehow, to cope; and maybe yet he'd learn to cope with this. He'd have to learn to; there wasn't any going around that. If he ever wanted to live, he'd have to learn to let go again. He'd have to let go of Loki, even if the thought was strangely terrifying.

Setting the bottle onto the bedside table, he crossed the room until he stood in front of the box that held Loki's helm. He hadn't looked in it since the first night, when Sif stormed into his workshop, and dramatically changed his whole life again.

Quite frankly, Tony couldn't even say how the box got into his room; but he figured Sif (the only one who could carry it) had placed it there, just in case he wanted to reminisce. And he supposed he had an urge to do just that; he crouched in front of the box, absentmindedly attempting to readjust the towel around his waist, before he slowly reached over and traced his fingers along the oversized snake head that decorated one side of the box.

He was almost scared to open it; some irrational part of him warned him, that Loki's head might be there instead. There wasn't any way that could be; but he was cautious, and his hands shook very faintly before he finally slid off the top.

The helm, the curved horns particularly, reflected his anxiety-ridden expression back at him, as if mocking him like Loki would have if he were here. He exhaled, before letting out an abrupt and uneasy laugh; although the pain in his chest was real.

It was a familiar sensation, one he knew all too well. Every time he thought of either Pepper or Loki, that ache would consume him from the inside-out. It was the feeling of being so hopelessly alone, and trying so hard to remedy it with liquor; but goddammit, it would not go away.

Tony set the lid aside, before slipping both hands into the box, and extracting the helm. It was surprisingly light-weight; he hadn't any problem moving it from one side to the other, while he examined every curve, every contour, everything that made up Loki's ridiculous horns.

And yet for being ridiculous, they suddenly took on an entirely new meaning to Tony. They were actually the only thing he had left of him; the silver-tongued bastard was dead and gone now. His mass destruction was still being felt throughout New York City; but everything else narrowed down to the helm between his hands.

A thousand year old god had been reduced to horned helmet; and one day Tony would be reduced to a titanium alloy suit. His legacy would be as forgotten as Loki's inevitably was. Despite the mass destruction, the utter chaos he had caused, Loki would be forgotten and replaced by an even bigger and badder foe.

Everyone would forget; it was the natural order of things. People were fickle; life was even fickler, and Tony, well, he wasn't so lucky in that respect. He oftentimes brooded on things to the point of madness; and this wouldn't be any different either. He wouldn't be able to forget Loki so easily, even if their relationship (if it could even be called that) was short lived.

Wearily Tony placed the helm back into its rightful place, before replacing the lid back on top. There were only so many moments he could devote to staring at the helm; since he really didn't want to in the first place. Not when he felt so powerless and endlessly hopeless; because he couldn't have changed things accordingly.

He was just a stupid, weak mortal; whereas gods were immortal abominations, who carried out the fate of others. Gods killed one another just as humans did; they knew the appropriate punishment for someone of Loki's caliber. So why should have Tony stopped it anyway? Why did he even intervene when SHIELD chose to execute Loki?

"Stupid, fucking sentiment," he scoffed, rising from his crouched position; but he paused once he glimpsed on the silhouette in the doorway.

It wasn't like Tony was particularly inclined to closing doors, not when he spent the majority of his time alone (or with Pepper for that matter). And he had all but forgotten that another person was actually in the house; especially since his last run-in with Sif hadn't ended well.

It was hard for him to believe, and always would be, that the apocalypse was set in motion over a god's death. Maybe his world ended after Loki's death, but he'd be damned if crazy-ass brother Baldur started the beginning of the end. Since science was still a pretty big fucking obstacle to overcome, thank you very much.

"Hey, I still thought we weren't on speaking terms," he said as conversationally as he could, considering the circumstances of his semi-inebriation and sentimentality.

"I believe you broached those terms, man of iron," Sif returned, still leaning against the doorframe as casually as someone could; considering they were breeching someone's privacy so entirely.

"Yeah, maybe a little," he affirmed, readjusting his towel but it was hardly out of modesty. "So, is there any reason you decided to pay me a visit tonight? You know, aside from the clearly inappropriate ones."

The warrior goddess raised an eyebrow, before she pushed herself off the doorframe, and meandered into the room. She observed every nook and cranny, as if there was a potential threat; which wouldn't be that farfetched with how often Tony found himself in questionably dangerous situations.

"I see you still have use for his helm yet," she said, halting only a few feet away. "But that was not why I've come to see you this eve."

"Are we going to talk about the end of the world again?" Tony had to suppress the urge to room his eyes.

Her expression was enough to say as much, which didn't bode well with him at all. He had his own personal crisis to combat, which hardly aligned with some pseudo-Armageddon. Maybe he could believe in gods (since they were shoved in his face unexpectedly); but he wasn't privy to the idea of the world blowing into smithereens without a logical reason.

"I have been monitoring your Midgardian telecasts closely," Sif began, motioning as if to give her statement more solidity. "And you mustn't be aware of a troubling incident that has befallen your country of China."

"Aside from all the American jobs being sent there? Shame on you, Apple; I make sure Stark products are made in the good 'ol US of A."

"A city has been burnt beyond recognition; hundreds upon hundreds of innocent lives lost. And only the flames of Hel could cause such irreversible and absolute damage."

"Okay, I'm just going to say this once, so listen up, sweetheart," Tony pointed at her, trying to grin in a carefree manner but failing. "I don't believe you. There is always a logical, sound reason for shit to happen. And most of the time the news sensationalizes things, just so they can rally the troops into believing the world is ending because of our fucked up moral compasses."

"I am not jesting with you," Sif almost hissed, walking up to him and shoving his shoulder. "I haven't any reason to lie to you, and you will do well to remember that!"

Tony stifled a laugh, since he knew she could have easily sent him barreling through the French doors; and wouldn't the media frenzy have a field day to know Iron Man was thrown from his window, naked, into the ocean?

"I get your message loud and clear," he cracked a grin, snatching her wrist, and holding her in place.

It had to be his lower facilities, it really was the only explanation; while Tony was prone to be a flirt, to the point of being completely insufferable, he was still born with a sound enough mind to stop short of getting into irreversible trouble. But it was different when he was compromised; it was different when shit hit the fan for him, and he couldn't remedy the problem soundly.

Without any hesitance, he yanked Sif to him until they were flush together. She was as tall as him, so he could really look into her eyes and see the level of confusion and agitation sparked in them. But mostly, he focused on the color that was both foreign and familiar. Foreign because the shade of green was borderline haze, comparably to emerald; but it was familiar due to the sharpened awareness, the ferocity that only people of Asgard seemed to possess.

She reminded him of Loki; even if they were only vaguely similar, but there was enough to make his heart ache a little more than it was when fueled by memories alone. There was something fierce, wild, archaic that smoldered from her very core; her cat-like reflexes, her utterly self-righteous Shakespeare speak, and her dark hair and pale skin; it was all very Loki-like.

He cupped the nape of her neck, forcing her to meet his mouth that was so starved for attention, and so desperate for something that he couldn't have again. He kissed her hard, almost to the point where he thought he could draw blood from her lips. But he didn't care; all he wanted was for that connection, something that was rooted in his not-so distant past.

She'd never be Loki, but she was close enough; so close that he could shut his eyes and imagine it was him. Even when he forced his tongue past her lips, meeting immediate resistance, he could pretend that it was him.

Despite taking full advantage of the situation, Sif didn't fight him beyond a few squirms and dissatisfied groans. He had to figure it had more to do with his miserable lush self, than any attraction that she might have had for him; but that didn't deter him at all.

He kissed her harder, longer until he found himself growing lightheaded with lack of oxygen. It was only then that he pulled away, taking in a breath that was ragged and desperate, and so broken that he thought he might actually lose his level of nonchalance that he displayed in front of her.

Sif, in turn, pinned him with a steely look, although her breathing was irregular. At least, she didn't look like she'd maim him for touching her; and maybe he should have known better to brush his lips against hers again, which made her involuntarily shudder. But Tony wasn't known for self-control, and for Christ's sake he hadn't had sex since Las Vegas.

His mouth trailed away from hers, pressing gentle kisses across her jaw, before making his way down her neck and onto her shoulder. She twisted her body, trying to get away from him, probably without using excessive force; although that only fueled him to wrap his arms around her tightly, and make her escape harder to accomplish.

"Unhand me, you brute," she snapped, before gasping as he nipped at her neck. "I am not a vessel to use in which you please! I am not Loki!"

The pointedness of her words stopped him abruptly. And he knew, without the shadow of a doubt, the definiteness of Loki's demise. She wasn't Loki and she couldn't replace him either. No matter how close she was to him, being a god with dark hair and brilliant green eyes, she couldn't be him or replace him or imitate him.

He pulled away, appalled by himself. It was an old pattern, repeated until it became second nature; he'd get drunk or halfway drunk in this case, and seek out the closest body for comfort. Because he couldn't face the reality of any emotionally fueled situation; he always masked it behind something, but he also was keenly aware that he couldn't do so forever.

He swallowed hard, letting go of her, and waited for the tirade to begin. Of course, he didn't deserve anything better; he'd actually be okay if she slugged him. In the very least, he wouldn't have to think about how much of an idiot he truly was.

_"Sir, I hate to bother you, but there is a pressing matter you should attend to," _Jarvis cut through the building tension, which was probably a good thing; for now anyway.

"What pressing matter?" Tony took the opportunity to walk away, moving towards the abandoned wine bottle.

_"Miss Potts has just arrived; she would like to have a word with you. Shall I send her up?"_

"Pepper's here?" He gaped, before turning around, and immediately hurrying towards the walk-in closet. "Like she's in the house right now?"

_"Yes, sir; she's in the living room."_

"Stall her! Tell her I'll be right down, but don't send her up!" He commanded, while yanking out essential pieces of clothing to put on; even though he was now feeling a nasty bout of vertigo from his previous drinking.

Somehow, probably by the grace of whatever deity existed (or maybe just sheer willpower), Tony managed to pull on his clothing without either falling over or vomiting all over himself. However, the vertigo still persisted as he struggled to pull on his tennis shoe, and found Sif still in the place he had left her.

"Do not come downstairs, or so help me," he warned, even though it was a very weak threat.

"I shall promise to, so long as you promise to at least observe what I have found about Hel's flames," she returned determinedly. "And I shall overlook your foolish actions beforehand as well. But if you do not, I shall see to your guest myself."

"Okay, I'll listen to everything you know about China! Just stay up here and we'll have a pow-wow about it whenever I'm done!" He forced his shoe on, before hobbling to the bedroom door, only to turn around and stare at her. "Drunk or not, it doesn't excuse what I did. So I'm sorry."

"I am sorry too," Sif said, but without any sort of ill-will. "Because I know your loss is momentous, and men like you grasp onto anything familiar. Even if I cannot be what you want; it's still better than having nothing. Am I right, man of iron?"

Tony stared long and hard at her, and despite all his internal alarms telling him otherwise; he still for the life of him could see something of Loki in her. For the briefest of moments, he swore he saw a mischievous glint in her eye, and the hopefulness almost caused him to choke.

"I don't want to, but I need to let this go," he said firmly, before turning away, and staggering towards another encounter that he deemed to be a nightmare in the making.


	6. Chapter Five :: Color Me Once

**The Art of War**

Chapter Five

(Color Me Once)

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**Author's Note: **Thank you to the individuals who've reviewed; it really means a lot to me to know you've been enjoying the story. And a huge thank you to the individuals who always take out the time to review, you have no clue how grateful I am to you. :)

The name for this chapter was inspired by the song "Color Me Once" by Violent Femmes.

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Oversized pieces of cement, bricks of indiscernible color, and gnarled bits of wood littered the ash covered ground. There wasn't any sign of human life in a district that once bustled with activity. The bright lights, the cacophony of voices had all been destroyed; and the skeletal remains of a thriving society were the only things that were left.

Natasha stepped over the debris on light feet, while she surveyed the Tuen Mun district. There hadn't been any survivors; many of SHIELD's informants had passed along the information once they arrived, alongside a slew of peculiar reports about a black cloaked demon. Albeit, Clint was quick to point out the language barrier, since he refused to believe a demon was running rampant through Hong Kong.

She, on the other hand, suspended any disbelief. She had learned from Fury that anything and everything was possible; so it was better to reserve judgment than to be proven wrong. So terribly wrong in fact, that it caused yourself or your team bodily injury.

"Reminiscent of Hiroshima, don't you think?" Clint kicked over a charred plank of wood, extinguishing the smallest of flames before it could even attempt to spread.

"I wouldn't know, I wasn't there," she returned, slinking further into the mangled remains of buildings and probably more than likely human remains as well.

"Funny," he quipped, following close behind.

Smoke plumed from several locations, an aftermath to the mayhem that had befallen the area several days beforehand. The flames hadn't been extinguishable from what they'd been told; in fact, they had flickered into oblivion by their own volition, as if someone had been controlling them. Which gave more validity to the mysterious dark cloaked demon; or so the murmurs seemed to suggest anyway.

They wandered further amongst the rubble, observing the absolute desolation; there wouldn't be much to report back to SHIELD with. Not anything of importance; it was impossible to discern if Doom was behind the attack or not. But Natasha had a distinct feeling that even that menace couldn't cause such absolute destruction.

From their previous encounter with Doom, he hadn't been that sophisticated. His magic was certainly beyond anyone's expertise within SHIELD, but he wasn't a full-fledged sorcerer type like Loki had been. And even then, Loki hadn't seemed to have the ability to demolish a whole district without outside help, specifically the Chitauri.

"I think Fury will be pissed if we come back empty-handed," Clint scoffed behind her. "You know aside from some crazy accounts about a black cloaked demon. Even that's out of sorts for him; unless this guy is actually Doom or another psychopath on the loose."

"Do you really believe Doom has the capacity to decimate a good portion of Hong Kong?" She sent him a questioning look, and received a toothy grin in return.

"I find it believable compared to some demon doing it. Clearly those people were traumatized, or it's a huge cluster fuck of miscommunication. I don't know Mandarin, so I really couldn't tell you."

"There's something unusual about this,"

"Of course there is, but let's not get into the zany supernatural bullshit right off the bat. There has to be a logical reason behind this, you know."

"As logical as alien invasions and Norse gods, you mean?" She quirked an eyebrow, before she paused in an oversized pile of rubble consisting mostly of ash.

Clint stood an arm's length away, crouching down to dig through the building's remains. But there was nothing substantial to find; both of them knew they were on a futile mission. Whatever had caused this left nothing behind, beyond the fragments of what used to be a city; and Fury wouldn't be satisfied with that. It would be a wasted trip; but unless something similar happened elsewhere, there was nothing they could report about.

"This is pointless, maybe we'd be better off babysitting Stark after all," he squinted up at her from behind his sunglasses.

"If you mean keeping an eye on someone clearly compromised,"

"He was under Loki's control. Fury even confirmed it."

"Then I'm not about to argue, even though I have my suspicions," she started to traverse the area again, looking heavenward at the salmon tinged sky.

It was nearing twilight already; they had only been on the ground for a less than two hours, and had nothing to show for it beyond soot covered boots and grimy fingernails. Several flashes of lightning streaked across the sky, gnarled stitches that had become a normal occurrence on this side of the Earth.

Natasha hardly paid it any mind, even as a rambunctious clap of thunder sounded loudly thereafter. She continued along an undetermined path, observing, and filing the unimportant details to memory just in case Fury had any need for them. But the likelihood was nil; destroyed city districts weren't SHIELD's problem, and unless they were in direct correlation to someone like Doom or otherwise, well it really wasn't worth investing time into it.

"We might as well head back," Clint joined her again, wiping his hands together, and for good measures swiping them on the seat of his pants. "We're not going to find anything worthwhile. It's just miles and miles of debris; we're probably stepping on incinerated people too, you know."

"Regardless, we should be thorough," she stopped, peering over her shoulder at him for the umpteenth time since they began their search. "We should always be thorough."

"There's being thorough and then there's being nitpicky,"

"Better nitpicky than recklessly overlooking something of importance," she narrowed her eyes. "Barton, you wanted out of headquarters, and now you have the chance. Don't waste it, especially since Director Fury put his confidence into you when it comes to your abilities."

"You mean after I was compromised," Clint furrowed his brow, before walking past her and towards another mangled building that had been made of cement.

Wordlessly she trailed him, and climbed to the top of the wreckage. They had a better view of the immediate area, which was unchanged from their vantage point on the ground. There were more burned out buildings, ruins and piles of ashes. It was all very redundant; and she could understand Clint's frustration, but she wasn't one to cut corners and neither was he.

"I'm better, you know," Clint sniffed, before reaching backwards to pull an arrow from his quiver. "The nightmares are gone; I haven't had a dream with that crazy bastard in it for a solid month."

"I believe you," she leveled him with a hardened expression. "If I didn't believe that, I wouldn't have gone along with your decision to try and sway Coulson into helping you get back onto the field."

"Yeah, well sometimes I wonder," he began to twirl the arrow between his middle and forefinger; it was a nervous tick. "Maybe I question myself more often than I would like. And it doesn't help with Stark being compromised too."

"If you want my opinion on it, Stark wasn't compromised like you were," Natasha placed her hands on her hips, moving to the other side of the debris, and gazing upwards at the intricate designs that the lightning was creating. "I actually think he was doing everything of his own volition."

"Why the hell would he do that?" Clint saddled up beside her, drawing her attention solely onto him. "Stark, like any of us, had good reason to want Loki dead. I mean, he almost died himself; and let's not even get into the damage to his gaudy-ass tower."

"I'm a spy, Barton," she smiled sardonically. "Just because I work for SHIELD, doesn't mean I haven't gathered information for my own benefit."

Of course, any information involving Loki had been particularly interesting to her. She hadn't forgotten what the god had done to Clint, and she'd be damned if she didn't gather everything she knew about him during his brief interlude back on Earth. And that included an extensive look on Stark, once they became aware of where Loki had disappeared to.

Stark had definitely been compromised, but by no means had it been by mind control. In fact, it was simpler than that; far more primal than any sort of sophisticated telepathy. It was hard to believe when it came to such a complicated man as Stark; the same Stark who was touted as a genius, and was notoriously promiscuous.

"So tell me what you know," Clint visibly bristled, twirling the arrow between his fingers faster and faster.

"I think Stark was compromised emotionally,"

"Emotionally," he repeated.

"Somehow Stark, to my understanding, had gotten emotionally attached to Loki," she replied, kicking at some rubble at her feet. "I don't know the level of his attachment though. Even if Fury was aware of it, I doubt he'd actually put it into a written report, or even in Stark's confidential file."

"What do you mean emotionally? Do you mean like Stockholm syndrome sort of shit? Like he was sympathizing with him?"

"If only," she quirked an eyebrow. "I actually think he might have fallen in love with him."

Clint abruptly laughed, pausing in his nervous tick. She didn't blame him though; it sounded ridiculous, and it inevitably was despite the validity behind it. To think that their comrade, the guy who had sacrificed his life to save them all, had fallen in love with the villain who'd brought forth all that destruction in the first place, really was laughable.

"Tony fucking Stark fell in love with that asshole?" Clint laughed again, louder than before. "You've got to be kidding me! Nat, I know you have a weird sense of humor, but you're really pushing it with this one."

"Do you see me laughing, Barton?"

"You don't laugh ever,"

"But do I look amused?" Natasha pressed, which appeared to seep away the humor from her partner. "I'm serious; I really do think Stark had fallen in love with Loki. I heard murmurs about it from Fury himself; and do you think he's in a gaming mood when it comes to anything to do with a hostile war criminal?"

The amusement froze on Clint's face, before it began to crumble into a stunned expression. She could see that the realization began to seep into his consciousness, and then the shock morphed into something far more hostile, almost frightening. But she was hardly scared of anything, and she definitely wasn't afraid of him.

"That son of a bitch," Clint whispered. "He actually helped kill all those agents, because he wanted to get fucked by a psychopathic, wild-eyed, piece of shit called a god?"

"I don't know the specifics,"

"That isn't funny," he snarled.

"It wasn't meant to be funny. It's the truth." She returned.

Clint's expression grew terse, which only meant he was beyond angry; he was, actually, incensed. His arrow spun even faster than before between his fingers, until it was only a blur. He opened his mouth to speak, or maybe he would actually yell in frustration; either way it did not come to fruition. In fact, he froze suddenly, which drew her attention to where his eyes had settled.

Farther away, close to a mile or maybe even two, stood an individual cloaked entirely in black. Within a blink of an eye, Clint pulled out his bow with a sharp flick of the wrist, and trained the arrow onto the figure that meandered through the carnage.

Natasha drew out her glock, aiming for the figure as well; in between the two of them, they could easily take him out if need be. And if the reports were even remotely true, this could very well be the black cloaked demon.

The figure appeared to float, elegant and lucid, as he traversed the wasteland. A long, black cape bellowed behind him, revealing very little of a lengthy, agile body that was encompassed entirely by form fitting leather. His head was tilted downward, as if keeping close watch on his own steps just in case he tripped over the debris that surrounded him.

"Less of a demon in black," Clint murmured, shifting to follow the figure with his arrow. "And more like a Batman reject; look at that spandex."

"Maybe you should put down the comic books, Barton," she muttered, tracing every contour of the figure's body, and pinpointing the exact spot that would hit something vital; a head shot was preferable but it was always good to be prepared if she happened to miss (which rarely occurred).

"You're the one who was willing to believe in a demon," he returned sharply.

"Well, we'll find out soon enough, now won't we?"

"Sorry, but ladies aren't first this time around, Nat,"

"Oh, but I think they are," she smirked, as he took his shot with lightning fast speed.

The arrow cut through the air, spot-on; but it never hit its intended target. The figure's hand shot out without even turning about, and caught the arrow before breaking it in half. But it didn't deter either of them; Clint shot several more arrows, and Natasha made good use of her glock.

One of them had to hit, since both of them were master marksmen. Something should have, and yet none of them did. The figure moved faster than what was humanly possible, plucking arrows directly out of the air, and avoiding the bullets with a dancer's grace.

"Son of a bitch, he's good," Clint fired several more arrows, but these ones were notorious for exploding on impact; which was nice to have when faced with a faceless foe, who'd been described as an unearthly being.

But those were easily deterred too; the figure moved into a barrel roll, narrowly avoiding the explosives which let loose into a brilliant orange fireball. Debris scattered and ash rose in the face of the explosion; and yet the figure seemed to be unmarred by their speedy attacks.

"It's no good," Natasha said, quickly shooting Clint a look. "I can't hit him from this distance."

"Well, shit we can't get any closer. Unless you want to mosey on over and say howdy-fucking-do to him; which I doubt Batman would be very receptive to." He shot another arrow at the now retreating figure; although it seemed to go right through him as if it was some sort of magic.

The figure dissipated right in front of their very eyes, as if he'd been a mirage all this time; induced by the heavy heat that burrowed itself into the wreckage, and the quiet that seemed to stretch out into infinity.

Before either of them could speak, the sound of footfall echoed forebodingly behind them. Natasha whipped around first, raising her glock to point at the black cloaked demon. Her eyes widened, suddenly registering whom she was face-to-face with. It had only been a few months, since she was confronted with that pale, aquiline face whose eyes were so damned impenetrable that it even drove her towards frustration.

She tried to break him, because he broke Clint. She tried to torture him until he could take no more; but he escaped. He escaped and found refuge with a man that was supposed to be her ally. And he was the same entity that was supposed to be back in Asgard, preferably without a head.

But his head was intact, and his face a perfect picture of steely, unperturbed lucidity. His eyes were brighter than before, and for the briefest of moments she could have called him beautiful. His dark hair had grown at least an inch and a half longer and was curled extravagantly at the nape of his neck, resembling the feathers of a raven.

His armor was no longer green and gold, but instead muted into onyx and the dullest of silvers. Clint's description of his leathers weren't too farfetched either; they were tightly fitted against his body as if a second skin, revealing the lithe and well-defined muscle of his appendages that hadn't been discernible beforehand.

But what immediately drew her attention was the deadly looking sword in his gloved hand. It reflected the calamity in the sky, and caused her heart to jump to her throat. And yet she easily maintained her nonchalance, even in the face of what was clearly a maniac.

"Loki," she breathed out, already aware that Clint had leveled the god with an arrow; this time, she knew, it was aimed between his eyes.

"I know not who you speak of, mortal," the god said darkly, as the corners of his mouth rose into a smile. "Such an entity must only exist within a child's fable."

Without any forewarning, another arrow flew at the god; but instead of Loki snatching it from the air; he simply set it on fire and incinerated it with a split second. And it wasn't just any sort of fire; no it was black just like the many reports that they received about what had leveled the district.

Loki quickly spun his sword; as if he were a master swordsman, and lifted it until the blade was pointed only a fraction of an inch from Natasha's nose. His eyes flickered from the brightest of greens, to an even more stunning (and deadly) of reds that made him look macabrely handsome.

"Petty, insignificant humans," he spat out. "Your world will fall upon my command; and you shall all burn to the melody of my flame. So you, my little nymphet shall see another day yet. For you are as wild as any flame, and I want you to dance amongst the smoldering heat until you are no more."

He lowered his sword, only to draw it again and point it at Clint instead. His eyes had returned to their previous color, although he wasn't any less dangerous. His whole body appeared to quake with unrestrained anger, and he was only willing for something or someone to make him unleash it.

"As for you," he glowered, pressing the blade against Clint's cheek. "I will cease your flight, even if I must tear your wings asunder. I shall take pleasure in your pain, and bask in the way that a bird like you will only be able crawl like the lowliest of parasites. Do you understand me?"

Clint did not reply, nor did he make a move to reach for his quiver. He wasn't stupid, not in the face of a viable threat. This wasn't child's play, and Loki was not a compliant player as he had been throughout his first attempt at world domination. No, this Loki was darker and by far more sinister.

Slowly, excruciatingly so, Loki retracted his blade; before he backpedaled until he was several feet away. He smiled manically, which made Natasha's skin curl; because there was something off about him. Of course, there had been something off about him from day one; but this was deeper, more disturbing, and every instinct that she had was screaming as much.

"The Hawk and the Widow together again, if only in death's impatient embrace," Loki's smile flickered and wavered, before suddenly displaying confusion that was so palpable that it was borderline painful. "But until next time, my little mortals,"

Black flames burst back into life, lapping at the god's body, until it was entirely consumed and dissipated into nothingness. Several terse moments passed, before Clint wrapped an urgent arm around Natasha's shoulders from behind. He pressed a hard kiss to the side of her head, and for once she let him do it without any protest. Not after they faced what could only deemed as undiluted evil.


	7. Chapter Six :: Big Empty

**The Art of War**

Chapter Six

(Big Empty)

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**Author's Note: **I apologize that this chapter took longer than normal to be posted. Originally this was meant to be a chapter in Thor's point of view, but I realized how awful I am at writing him; so instead I wrote in Pepper's POV instead. And I preferred this result; not to mention I absolutely adore her.

Anyway, reviews always are welcomed (and they make me happy); and I hope you enjoy.

Also this chapter was named after "Big Empty" by Stone Temple Pilots.

* * *

Despite being the infamous Pepper Potts, it still proved to be a challenge to remain professional while faced with her ex-boyfriend of only a month, and the many unresolved issues between them. Worse yet, was having to handle the absolute mess that he'd become in that span of time; because that's what Pepper did, she fixed Tony.

Upending several pricey bottles of wine into the sink, Pepper blocked out Tony's slurred protests and explosive hand gestures; she'd handled this sort of situation more than once, and had gotten good on maintaining her poker face, even though she wanted nothing more than to scream herself hoarse.

But that wouldn't be appropriate considering the climate of things. There were two Peppers, and the emotionally affected one would only exacerbate the problem; whereas, hardened business-savvy Miss Potts was the right person to sober up her eccentric, harebrained boss.

"You've had more than enough time off," she stated matter-of-factly, setting aside a now empty bottle, and taking up a full one. "And you've had plenty to drink for a few years. So it's about time you sober up and take on your half of the responsibilities to Stark Industries."

"The chardonnay, really," Tony bemoaned.

"The chardonnay, the sherry, the brandy, all of it,"

"Not the scotch, over my dead body,"

"That can be arranged," she said evenly, emptying the chardonnay bottle. "Since you'll need to be sober for the benefit gala that the company is throwing; and yes, you will be there, and you will be expected to speak."

In reality, the benefit could have gone on without Tony's presence. She had even chosen to keep him uninformed about it, since he generally wouldn't appear at galas if he could help it; and well, there was the whole disaster with his previous indiscretions. But it would do him good to be productive, rather than to waste away in his mansion alone.

Of course, Pepper wasn't solely motivated by Tony's downward spiral; SHIELD had telephoned her earlier, and wanted her to keep a closer eye on him. Since he'd proven himself to be utterly untrustworthy beyond his normal behavior; and that was one subject Pepper did not want to discuss, let alone think about.

The details were still vague to her; but she knew that Tony had hacked into SHIELD's security systems, in order to lead a rescue mission to save a hostile war criminal (one he'd been harboring under this very roof for months beforehand), which ultimately led to twenty-three people dying. And to top it off, Tony then crossed state lines with aforementioned war criminal in tow.

She suspected that she was purposely being kept in the dark; Agent Coulson had tiptoed around the subject, and she had a feeling it didn't have anything to do with national security. She believed he was doing it more so for her benefit, which didn't bode very well with her; because it meant Tony had done something worse than lie to her.

"Pepper, please," Tony bemoaned in agony, as she snatched the crystal decanter from the counter and upended it with flourish. "This is cruel and unusual punishment."

"No, Tony," she glowered at him, but managed to quickly smooth it over with a neutral expression. "This is called saving you from yourself. And a stupidly expensive decanter of scotch isn't worth your life."

"And to think all this time, I thought you hated me,"

"I don't hate you, I could never hate you," she paused in emptying the decanter. "Regardless of what you have done and what you'll inevitably do in the future, there's no way I could hate you, Tony. However, I reserve the right to be angry at you; and I reserve the right _not_ to be in your life beyond a professional basis."

Tony stared at her with bleary eyes, in a way that was both vulnerable and confused. She'd seen that expression a few times in the past; hell, she had seen almost every side to him, and that was what made the whole situation worse. She loved him beyond what was rational, but she couldn't stay; not when there were even more skeletons strung up in his closet.

"I really fucked up," he laughed hoarsely.

"You did, yes. But you aren't the only one in the history of the world who has."

"I perpetually fuck up though, Pepper. It's not like it happens from time to time; my whole life is just a big fuck-fest of mistakes."

"Then do something about it," she returned, setting the decanter aside. "Sober up, make yourself look presentable again, and show up for this benefit with the intent of helping people. Redeem yourself again, Tony. Because you have a lot of that to do, and I wouldn't be helping you if I sugar-coated that fact, now would I?"

They stared at one another, a familiar feat, but something was different about it. The trust between them had been strained yet again; and there was something so painfully lost in Tony, that her resolve threatened to break in half.

She hated to see him like this; he looked like hell and probably felt like it too. This was self-induced punishment; SHIELD didn't even have to enact any sort of reprimand for his involvement in Loki's escape, because Tony was doing a pretty good job of it himself.

"If I don't drink then I remember," Tony said in a small, tortured voice. "My reality's a huge fucking nightmare; self-induced, of course."

"I can't tell you how to run your life," Pepper leaned in, giving him her no-nonsense look. "But you aren't doing anyone any favors, especially yourself by doing this, Tony."

"I can't change things, Pepper. And that really burns my ass. If I could build a time machine, I'd do it in a heartbeat and make sure this would have never happened." He carded his fingers through his hair, almost on the verge of it being painful.

Tony usually agonized on things, but more often than less they were internalized. He always seemed to be on the verge of teetering over the edge, and it was only recently that most of his demons seemed to have been put to bed.

They'd been happy not so long ago. Things had been going relatively smoothly after the events of the alien invasion; Tony had spent several weeks in recovery, but bounced back without any trouble. She would have noticed something amiss if there had been anything; she could read him better than anyone else, including Rhodey. There wasn't anything off-kilter about him, not until he familiarized himself with Loki again.

"Well, you don't have the power of time travel, despite your genius. So there's no point on dwelling on that. All you can do is try and fix what you've done, and being drunk all day isn't a solution. It'll never be a solution." She said, before defiantly grabbing another bottle of booze, and emptying it like the many beforehand.

Defeated, Tony leaned against the kitchen counter, and let Pepper make good use of his remaining bottles of booze. Although she suspected there were plenty more hidden elsewhere; but so long as the majority were taken care of, that was all she could ask for.

Once she emptied every last drop of alcohol within her grasp, Pepper tossed the bottles into the garbage can, before turning on Tony who was still slumped over the counter. His head was cradled in his arms, and his body swayed to and fro as if to a song that only he could hear.

Wordlessly, she took a hold of him by the arm, and urged him to stand. It took several tries before he finally complied, and allowed her to steer him out of the kitchen and towards the elevator. She suspected he wouldn't be able to withstand a trip up the stairs; not when he'd been drinking, undoubtedly, for an entire month straight.

"Is there any way I convince you to stay?" Tony asked, as they entered the elevator, and he slapped his hand haphazardly against the second floor button.

"Clean yourself up and be at the gala, and then we'll have a real conversation," she replied, tightening her hand around his arm to ensure he remained upright.

As the elevator lurched upward, the quiet extended to an uncomfortable state. It had been sometime since that sort of awkwardness existed between them. She couldn't recall something similarly, not since they had skirted with flirtation during the benefit after his return from Afghanistan, and when he disappeared while going to get her a drink in pursuit of Obie.

They had resolved any disquiet between them several years ago; and maybe she had been a little too hopeful that their relationship would have been permanent. By no means, had she been convinced that they would get married or even have children; but she had always been hopeful that they would have a future of some sort.

However, it was growing very apparent that even that was wishful thinking. Tony Stark wasn't the type to settle down with anyone, even if he really wanted to. Something always held him back; or something always cropped up that derailed him.

Once the elevator came to a stop, jarring Tony visibly in a jerk of uncoordinated limbs, Pepper directed him onto the second floor and towards his open bedroom door. It proved to be a harder feat than she expected, mostly because he was being deliberately difficult to move.

Tony wasn't that intoxicated; he still could function beyond what he was currently displaying, which made her think he was trying to hide something. Or maybe she was interpreting things wrong; considering it had been a stressful period for her too. She just hadn't spent it entirely drunk like he did.

"I'll sober up, okay," he planted his feet onto the carpet, and attempted to give her a carefree smile. "And I'll blow you away with my speech, Miss Potts. I'll make you proud."

"The gala's in two days," she provided. "Mr. Stark."

Their usual banter fell short; neither of them smiled, since they both knew things had changed. To the degree in which they had changed was still undetermined, but there was a definite shift. And something deep inside of Pepper seemed to suggest that they wouldn't be the same again.

"Two days is enough time to pull my shit together. Have some faith in me." He finally started towards the door, still relying on her guidance to a degree.

"Once you're in the building with your speech in hand, then I'll stop worrying,"

"Fair enough," he nodded, pausing outside of the room. "But I have to know something; did you come because SHIELD sent you?"

Pepper diverted her eyes, which gave him the answer he'd been looking for. She knew because he laughed harshly, in a way that was self-deprecating and also so damned cynical that it wasn't even funny.

"Phil called-"

"You mean Agent Coulson," he corrected, almost on the verge of being nasty. "And I bet he told you, SHIELD needed to keep a close eye on me; because who knows what unpredictable, traitorous Tony Stark is up to. Maybe he's planning world domination himself now."

"Can you really blame SHIELD for finding it necessary?" She asked sharply, catching his eye, and immediately regretting the question.

Hurt flashed across Tony's face, before he turned away, and started into the bedroom. Pepper followed after him, an apology on the tip of her tongue; but it never came out, since she caught sight of a woman standing outside on the balcony.

The betrayal she had felt suddenly resurged in a blinding hot wave; while she could potentially learn to forgive him for lying to her, for even harboring a war criminal in his workshop (which was saying a lot about her), there was no way she could conceivably forgive him for already inviting another woman into what was _their_ bedroom.

"Tony," she almost snarled, furling her hands into fists.

It was impossible to try and mask the anger she felt. She'd done a good job of it, but now she really didn't see a point on hiding it. Not when he already had another woman at his disposal; and to top it off, he had the gall to ask her to stay only minutes earlier.

Tony glanced at her tiredly, although he seemed to notice the shift in her mood. The gears in his head seemed to whirl into motion, and the realization hit him so hard in the face it would have been comical if she hadn't been so angry. He whipped around, almost tripping over his own two feet, as he slammed the French doors shut before the woman on his balcony could even say a word.

"Pepper, let me explain," he raised both his hands, desperation exuding from him. "This isn't what it looks like, I swear to god."

"Why am I even surprised?" She glowered, somehow managing to keep away from him; even though her baser instinct wanted her to beat him senseless. "The infamous Tony Stark is a renowned womanizer, after all. I'm surprised you held out this long, if you really even did."

"There's a reasonable explanation-"

"I don't want to hear any reasonable explanation or unreasonable one either," she raised her voice, noting how it quivered slightly. "What I want from you is to show your face at this benefit gala in two days. And I want you to take your role as the company's head seriously!

"I can't rely on you for anything else, but maybe you'll actually show up and at least pretend that you care about your company and the benefit it's throwing."

"I hear you," Tony said curtly. "I really, really hear you."

Before she could retort in kind, since she refused to allow him to have the final word, Tony walked back to the double doors and threw them open. The woman on the other end looked both confused and irate; although she hardly spared her a glance in return. Her attention was focused solely on Tony, who stepped out onto the balcony on unsteady legs.

"You know the way out," he said, shutting the doors closed behind him; and Pepper knew at that moment that it really was over.


	8. Chapter Seven :: Drama

**The Art of War**

Chapter Seven

(Drama)

* * *

**Author's Note: **I really wanted to post this chapter today, maybe as a holiday gift. So I hope you enjoy it; and I have to admit I was pretty fond of the interaction that occurred in this chapter. And I hope you like it too! :D

This chapter's song is "Drama" by Diary of Dream.

* * *

Niflheim lay ahead of him; a desolate ice land, covered in a heavy blanket of mist. It was much like Jotunheim in terrain, although the rich blues were absent within such a realm. It was much darker, foreboding than even the frost giant's dwelling; but he feared not of what may be hidden in his path, since fear only lived in the hearts of the weak.

For what could he possibly fear? Death's allure certainly was only a passing fancy to him; and physical pain hardly swayed him in any way. Pain was only an enhancement of the suffering that he very well would inflict upon the many; and personal pain was something he would welcome, if it meant reaching his goals of ultimate pandemonium.

He began his trek along the iced earth, unsurprised to feel curious eyes upon him; but their owners remain hidden, small specters that knew they hadn't any right to approach a feral creature such as him. Even disgraced souls knew their place.

Shadows crisscrossed along his path, quivering underneath his footfall, and dissipating as if they were truly souls that wanted to bask in his glory. They, however, could not withstand what encompassed his entire being; which was beyond reasonable explanation, and undoubtedly hadn't any name whatsoever.

His reality, his being was a complex meeting of magic and fate. Not even he could properly understand the madness within his own brain, and how he felt as if he was two separate entities within one body.

He began to suspect there was more to be told; much to be revealed. However, he had always known to some unexplainable degree; after all, his lineage was something he knew internally; as he knew of Odin and the Aesir. And there was more; so much more to discovered, even if he found himself lacking the enthusiasm to uncover it.

Nothing mattered beyond his need for mass destruction. Even the many indistinguishable voices inside his head were secondary in comparison; particularly the one whose words had, at some undetermined point held some sort of significance to him.

Traversing further into the bowels of Niflheim, he drew slowly to a standstill as the shadows that followed him so closely began to ripple and join together to create a heavy and pitch-black outline. His hand slid to his side, brushing alongside the hilt of his sword, and readied himself for what might emerge from the undulating silhouettes.

The shadows stretched and strained, whilst a chorus of agonized moans echoed across the landscape. Mist swirled, coiled, and intermingled with the shadows, until something began to emerge from the darkness in sharp and cruel contours.

His fingers wrapped around the sword's hilt, prepared to attack if need be. Although he suspected it would be unwarranted, as he vaguely recognized the antler-like horns that accumulated from the abyss of shadows, and the pale white face whose features were somewhat similar to his own.

The aquiline and harsh lines of that face, and that half-smile that graced cherry red lips seemed all too familiar now. Even the costuming of skin-tight leathers accented by green, was reminiscent of someone that perhaps used to be him or someone that he had previously known.

He narrowed his eyes critically, and studied the woman before him with growing familiarity and apprehension. Indeed, he knew that this creature was the ruler of the realm by the name of Hela. But he could not discern the twisted fondness upon her features, as if they had met in another lifetime, which was possible of course.

"There is no need to draw your sword," an unearthly voice cooed from Hela's lips. "I mean you no harm, if you do not mean the same, my dearest father."

His lips curled back to reveal his teeth, but he knew that she spoke the truth. This woman was in fact his child; a child that was bore in some macabre coupling, and emerged as the creature that was upon him now. She was of his flesh and blood, and he knew that he could not kill her. But not out of parental concern, for he bore no such thing; but from the dawning realization that she could only help him reach his goals.

"You are Hela, Hel, the ruler of Niflheim, and the goddess of death," he uttered, although his hand remained on his sword.

"Aye, and the flesh of your flesh; the blood of your blood; do you not remember?" She asked smoothly, stepping from the silhouette that bred her. "Or has fate made good use of you yet?"

"I remember you not," he replied honestly, but spared her a smile. "But my child is my child, whether my mind remembers or not."

A high-pitch laugh erupted from Hela, as if she was tickled pink by his declaration. She approached him, gliding soundlessly while running a hand up his arm and over his shoulders. She circled him, clearly enjoying the transformation that had befallen him; albeit he could not recollect if there was much difference to be had.

He allowed the contact, if only to appease her. For he had many favors to ask of her, and it would do him no good to threaten and maim her, as he had done to the frost giants not so long ago. This child of his was just as vicious and uncaring of life as he was.

"You have changed," she affirmed finally, rounding about him, and running her fingers along his chest. "Your energy is much darker than before, father. And your eyes are effervescent with much more than mischief; it can only be called evil."

Hela reached for his chin, tilting it, and studied him from one angle to another. Her smile only grew at the changes that she saw; perhaps they looked far more like one another than they had beforehand. Albeit, it was impossible to tell with the mask that she wore; it covered her eyes, and made them indiscernible.

"But even greater than your physical transformation, is the smell that exudes from you," she laughed again, sounding almost girlish. "You smell of blood, of destruction, and more importantly – you smell of what surely will be the end for all realms."

"So you are aware of my purpose, beloved child?" He allowed himself to smile, while his fingers curled painfully along the hilt of his sword still.

"Oh yes; one could not deny it if they wished. Your fate is clear, and your purpose is glorious."

"Then you will help me, will you not?"

"That depends, of course. How shall I serve you?" Hela pulled away, looking thoughtful but no less dangerous than even he.

There was a reason for him traveling to Niflheim; he had an internal feeling, which directed him there. He had known that he could procure many resources, if only he were willing to bargain with Hela. He, however, hadn't realized his bond to the goddess was beyond acquaintanceship, and he supposed he could exploit their familial connection for the means to the end.

"I require an army," he said slowly, arrogantly. "And you have one, do you not?"

As Hela had done only moments ago to him, he circled her if only to establish dominance. Despite the level of skill that she undoubtedly had; he knew that he was far stronger, and if he must he would abuse it.

Niflheim would fall by his hand if he willed it. Just as Jotunheim, Asgard, and Midgard would fall; he hadn't any qualms of doing the same to his child's realm. In fact, he would enjoy it as much as the others; particularly if Hela were to deny him.

"An army of lost souls," she crossed her arms over her impressive bosom, laughing once more. "And what would you do with such a band of warriors? Would you lead them to Asgard?"

"Oh no, my child," he leaned inward, breathing the words against the side of her neck. "I have my plans for Asgard already established; you need not worry of your army meeting the Aesir. Instead, I would like to have a bit of fun, in Midgard to be specific."

Hela tilted her head, mayhap in thought; for she remained quiet for several terse moments, before she met his eyes. Being that close to her, he could finally see that her eyes were red, but not Jotun red; her pupils were red and glowed softly as if a testament to the mayhem she was bred from.

"Midgard, you say?"

"Midgard, indeed," he affirmed.

"The same Midgard that the thunderer has chosen to keep a watchful eye upon; is that the place that you speak of, father?"

"The same, yes,"

"Then by all means," she grinned wickedly, as she reached up to brush her fingers along his cheek. "I shall grant you an army, and I shall personally assist you myself; if only to have a bit of fun; a trait that you have instilled in me so greatly."

They exchanged similar grins, which only spoke of their relation further. He could not deny her, as the many had refused him; he saw himself within her, and that devilish, mischievous trait was strong in her. She was his kin and she was willing to help him with his purpose.

"I shall call upon you and your army in due time, my child," he reached for her hand, cradling it against his cheek. "But only when I call upon you, no sooner. For patience is a virtue."

She chortled louder than before; the twinkling noise echoed across the many high peaks made of solid, crystalline ice. The shadows trembled from the sound, as if the souls she kept a watchful eye upon, were frightened by her merriment.

If she were anything like him now, then he supposed there was good reason to fear her. Any child of his was worthy of being feared; and he knew Hela was as macabre as he was, mayhap more than he was even; which was quite a feat to pull off.

"I shall wait for your call," she regained her composure, although her grin remained intact. "I haven't been to Midgard in sometime; I look forward to see what you have in store for such a petty realm. And I suspect you have only delightfully unpleasant plans at hand."

"I can neither confirm nor deny it. What fun would that be, if I let you know my plans, beloved?"

"Despite you having no recollection of bearing me, you have a fatherly approach to your kin. To withhold fun from your spawn is very fatherly, don't you think?"

"Ah, perhaps it is," he took her chin between his thumb and forefinger, before pressing a gentle kiss to the corner of her mouth. "But allow me to offer you some advice, my darling daughter. I do believe you will need it in my absence."

"Please, enlighten me," she returned.

Slowly and deliberately, he tightened his grip on her chin until he could sense her discomfort. He knew she would not outwardly complain, for this was child after all. Albeit, he made sure to get his point across before even the words escaped him.

While they were of the same flesh and blood, he did not trust her. His lineage originated in the snowy tundra that was Jotunheim, and he hadn't any trust towards the frost giants. Insofar he trusted the Aesir whom had posed as his familial ties for centuries.

"Do not believe for one moment that I shall not make good use of you, if you attempt to betray me. I am far more powerful than you are; and I will cause you unimaginable pains, if you choose to attack Midgard without my consent. Or if you go back on your word of sending your army to me." He tightened his hold, which caused Hela to growl. "I care not if you are my child; my purpose is my concern, and as your father I will destroy you and make you regret any betrayal that you might commit. Do you understand me?"

An unnatural hiss arose from her lips, an animalistic one. But she did not strike out at him, despite her clear and ever-building anger. He could feel it roll off her; even the shadows quivered at their feet as if to warn him that their mistress was becoming murderous.

"Shall I repeat myself, you insolent child?" He snarled venomously. "Do you understand me?"

"Yes, of course. I understand you very well." Hela finally said, although it sounded much like a snarl as his previous words were spoken in.

He withdrew his hand, taking several measured steps backwards, in case she chose to turn on him already. And he had good reason to be cautious; the shadows still trembled and roiled moodily at his feet, whilst the mist shifted in the same amount of discontent.

His child stood before him, quaking in undeniable rage; for the briefest of moments, he swore that the ground shook underfoot, brought on by her anger alone. He made to draw his sword from his sheath, only to do so by a mere inch or two; until Hela finally got a hold of herself once more.

That twisted little smile returned to her face, followed by that twinkling laugh that caused the shadows to react as they had beforehand. But he knew that the danger had passed, if only temporarily; and he knew she would not die by his hand today.

"Do not underestimate me, father. As I, no doubt, do not underestimate you." She said evenly. "My loyalty belongs to you and you alone."

"We shall see, now will we not?" He took several more steps back. "I shall call upon when the time is right; I expect you to be prompt with your response. I will not accept any less, my dear."

"As is your right as the bringer,"

"A child after my own heart," he returned, only to pause by the sudden pang of recognition he felt.

Like clockwork that phantom voice whistled against his ear; it was a gruff, masculine voice that might have very well been a product of unpleasant living. It was a dialect he could not easily discern; it sounded like none he had encountered in the many realms he passed through, although its origins could have very well been similar to the two petty mortals he encountered in the wastelands that he created on Midgard.

_"A god after my own heart," _

His brow furrowed, unable to connect the voice to a face; and for an unknown reason, it bothered him more than it should. In fact, he always found himself grown particularly angry that the knowledge would not come to him.

"I shall leave you now," he uttered, still plagued by that voice and its origins; but he found the mystery to still be a secondary concern, if not entirely useless to uncover.

"Your mind will never recover, father," Hela said matter-of-factly, as he turned to leave. "What you were and who you are now, are separate entities that aren't meant to align with one another. I can tell you are struggling; but never fear, the darkness will always win."

Rather than respond to his offspring's observation, he strode away from her; stripping his mind to the most basic of functions. His only purpose was to destroy; he hadn't any other function, purpose, capability. And he knew Hela's words spoke the truth; his former self was of no use to him now. It was only a burden to his goal, and he would not let the fragments of such hinder his plans.

He walked with further purpose into the mist, and begun to map out the course of mayhem and destruction that would befall Midgard, inevitably Jotunheim, and most importantly Asgard. It proved to be impossible to keep the smile from his lips, as he realized that such plans would soon come to fruition; and there was nothing that anyone could do to deter him.

It was fate, after all.


	9. Chapter Eight :: Darkest Days

**The Art of War**

Chapter Eight

(Darkest Days)

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**Author's Note: **Thank you everyone for all the support; I'm overwhelmed by all the kind words and the many reviews. So I really hope you enjoy this part; since we're finally getting to some substantial parts of the storyline.

The song for this chapter is "Darkest Days" by Stabbing Westward; although I'd recommend the whole album (by the same name).

* * *

There were several hundred people in formal wear, nursing flute glasses of champagne, slipping h'orderves from passing waiters' trays, and mingling in superficial ways. In other words, it was like every benefit gala that Tony had ever had the privilege to attend.

Every party he'd ever attended, every benefit that required his presence entailed the small talk, the shallow business discussions, practically anything that hadn't any substance to it at all. He had learned early on that being fake, charming but inevitably insincere, was the best way to conduct himself while in such situations.

So that was precisely what he was doing; he joked, flattered, flirted, and bantered with the suits and their wives; he poured on the charm while faced with the insatiable women who somehow weaseled into the party simply for a chance at the Stark name. And he did so while balancing either a glass of champagne in one hand, or a tumbler of scotch in the other.

He promised Pepper he'd sober up, write a speech that would blow her out of the water; but instead he spent the better half of two days, completely hammered. He'd only sobered up enough to function in his normal, charismatic way. And quite frankly, he didn't need to be that sober to even pull that off.

However, he was smart enough to stay away from Pepper; because she would lose it, if she could smell the alcohol on his breath, and catch sight of the glassiness of his eyes. Besides, he didn't really want to aggravate the situation any further; she had made it perfectly clear he was a fuck-up like he was already aware of. But Pepper, at least, had always believed otherwise until now.

"Maybe it's time to take a break on the booze," Rhodey said quietly beside him, escorting him away from the flirtatious wife of a fellow CEO. "You're starting to slur, Tony. And you still need to give your speech."

"I could give this speech in my sleep," he grinned, while patting the front of his tuxedo jacket. "I have index cards right here; so don't be such a worry wart. I can do this."

"I have a feeling this will be a disaster in the making," Rhodey returned, but didn't press the matter any further.

They wound further into the crowd; Tony yelling boisterously in greeting at several business associates, while Rhodey smiled in a painstaking way, as if to apologize for his behavior. Which generally would have been a job reserved for Pepper; but she couldn't even look at him anymore, not after she saw Sif in his bedroom.

Of course, he should have deterred that encounter by all means. Except alcohol had a way of making his usually sharp mind horribly fuzzy; not to mention when you threw in a healthy dose of emotional turmoil into the mix, things had a tendency to slip his mind.

Or maybe he was just a masochist by nature, and he wanted to get caught with a hot-ass warrior goddess in his bedroom; so it would give him an excuse to be hated by Pepper. Because he had cheated on her, but it just hadn't been with the person in question. Rather, he'd cheated with a dead god of mischief; although he had been alive at the time of the aforementioned infidelity; _funny._

"Have some faith, James," Tony messily slurped a mouthful of scotch from his glass, regarding another one of his business connections with a wave. "The speech is short; like a minute long. I can't cause that much damage in an entire minute, now can I?"

"Is that a serious question, because I doubt you want the answer," Rhodey gave him a steely look.

"Everything will be fine. Stop worrying."

"How can I not worry? Because I clearly recall the events before you reserved yourself to live the rest of your life at the bottom of a bottle."

"Oh yeah, and what events are you talking about exactly?" He paused, giving his friend a sideways look, and already knowing the answer.

They hadn't discussed their previous meeting in that roadside dinner; and well, Tony hadn't been sober enough to broach that topic either. Then again, the situation was far too painful for him to even want to bring it up.

"Oh, I don't know," Rhodey directed towards him, before saying hello to a party guest that went by. "I think that declaration of love you made; the same one that probably offended every Midwestern family within a five mile radius. You know, how you loved someone crazier than Charles fucking Manson."

"James, you are not crazier than Charles fucking Manson,"

"Very funny,"

"Well, I mean it. You couldn't be that crazy, since I imagine you'd be kicked out of the Air Force." He tossed back the rest of his drink, finding some sort of comfort in the burn in his throat and stomach. "Not to mention they'd cart you away in a strait jacket."

"That is your last drink of the night," Rhodey retorted, yanking the glass out of his hand without much effort.

Tony didn't protest; he only held up a hand in submission. He figured once he said his piece, something about Stark Industries supporting the clean-up efforts in New York City, and how the company would remain diligent about it, then he could have as much liquor as his liver would permit. And his liver was really accommodating; after all, he had lived this long already.

Rhodey deposited his empty tumbler onto a passing waiter's tray, before he steered him through the crowd, and towards a corner that would give him the opportunity to gather his wits. And it probably wouldn't hurt to have Rhodey overlook his speech; since he could have very well just jotted down blather in his drunken haze.

Once they separated from the throng of people, Rhodey forced him to sit on a chair conveniently stationed there, while motioning for someone to bring him a glass of water. But even water wouldn't sober him up; coffee wouldn't do the job either.

Actually Tony reserved himself to stay in that semi-inebriated state; that was until his gaze flickered across the crowd and saw a very familiar face; four to be precise. He squinted just in case his eyes were playing tricks on him, and god did he wish that was the case.

Standing behind the banquet table, dressed to the nines in formal attire were SHIELD's finest. Agent Coulson stood with his hands in front of his lap, smiling genially at whoever gave him a second look. Beside him was good 'ol Cap himself, looking like the perfect soldier, and garnering unwanted attention by the women in the room. And assassins one and two, Barton and Romanoff were also there also, neither hiding the displeasure on their faces for being there.

"James," Tony blindly grabbed for his friend's sleeve, and caught it on the third try. "Am I seeing what I think I'm seeing? Or am I having an alcohol induced delusion?"

"What are you talking about?"

"What the fuck is SHIELD doing here?"

"SHIELD," Rhodey repeated, before turning his attention onto the crowd.

It didn't take very long for his friend to see the quartet, and well he didn't imagine the way Rhodey tensed once he noticed them. Considering the fact, Rhodey was one of the few who knew most of what happened only over a month ago; well, there was good reason for him to be concerned, if only for Tony's benefit.

SHIELD clearly had a bone to pick with him still. It didn't matter that they sent off their decree of punishment, which entailed he pay something like two billion dollars in restitution to the fallen agents' families while also kicking that money into their sneaky spy pockets. He also willingly chose to step aside as Iron Man for however long it took, which was something like two or three months. But they, obviously, still believed they needed to tighten the leash a little more around his neck.

"Does Pepper know about this?" He asked, although he suspected she did.

"I don't know," Rhodey returned evenly. "But I imagine she would, since nothing gets past her."

"Cheat on your ex, and watch the cavalry roll in,"

"Well, there isn't much you can do about it," Rhodey sneered, once Coulson noticed that they were both staring at him, and had the gall to nod at them like this was entirely normal.

Then again this was SHIELD, and keeping a watchful eye on Tony was normal. But Coulson was usually the only one who did that, Romanoff at one point too. Tony just didn't have the best of the best assigned to him all at once. He supposed he should be honored, had it not been for the growing anger that started to develop in his alcohol-dulled mind.

Tony knew he didn't have any right to be angry, since he was a free man. But there were too many variables that said otherwise. Something important to him, maybe the most important thing to him had been stripped away from him. And not only was it stripped away from him, it had been killed; and he'd never see it again.

He would never see Loki again, because Loki was dead. Loki was somewhere in the fucking universe without a head, and all SHIELDs lackeys probably had a huge party to celebrate the fact. Barton probably especially threw back the tequila, and probably made lame headless jokes for shits and giggles too.

"Well, you know me, I hate to be an ungrateful host," he staggered back to his feet. "So I better say hello, before they think I'm purposely ignoring them."

"Tony, that isn't a good idea. Definitely not your best either." Rhodey grabbed him by the elbow, once he teetered on his feet.

"I'm fucking sick of the etiquette, Rhodey. I'm going over there whether you like it or not." He snapped back, breaking free of Rhodey's hold, and walking as normally as he could.

It proved harder to do than he originally perceived it to be; however, Rhodey followed after him, and directed him through the over-enthusiastic party guests with ease. Even when several jovial CEOs tried to deter him from his destination, Rhodey moved them along without causing bad feelings in their wake.

They crossed the room in record time, even though Tony stumbled more than once over his own two feet; and were saddled beside Coulson, who greeted them with a tight-lipped smile. Cap, Romanoff, and Barton weren't as receptive to his approach, which was just fucking dandy as far as he was concerned; considering they were technically uninvited guests.

"Agent Coulson," he grinned meanly, offering his hand. "It's been awhile."

"Mr. Stark, how are you this evening?" Coulson asked, but didn't take his hand. "I heard you have a speech to make very soon."

"Don't worry about me, I don't get pre-show jitters," he withdrew his hand, eyeing the other three. "So I guess my status has been bumped up, almost on the same level as a bona fide super-villain. Cool stuff."

"Well, if the shoe fits, Stark," Barton shrugged, before leaning towards Romanoff and whispering something in her ear, which elicited a ghost of a smile from her.

It took a lot of willpower for Tony not to lose his shit then and there; and it didn't hurt that Rhodey placed a hand on his shoulder, rooting him to the spot. Because if he hadn't, Tony suspected he might have had thrown a punch at Barton.

He let out a small bark of laughter, shaking his head as Cap pinned him with a look that obviously radiated of disapproval. He wasn't an idiot; he knew they had a right to be upset with him, suspicious of him, everything in between. Although, that didn't make him feel any better; not when his heart felt like it had been ripped out of his chest, glued back together, and ripped out again.

"To be honest, I really don't give a damn what you think of me. I never have. And I'm not about to start now." He smiled charmingly, managing to snag a flute glass off a waiter's tray without Rhodey deterring him. "So I hope you enjoy the speech, and maybe you'll be so kind and RSVP rather than just showing up without warning."

"We wouldn't have shown up at all, if it hadn't been for your reckless actions beforehand, Stark," Cap piped in finally, and in a way Tony had expected him to; self-righteous and betrayed.

"Ah shucks, Cap, please don't tell dear 'ol dad. He might actually be even more disappointed in me than he already is. Oh wait, you can't tell him, he's dead."

"Howard would have a right to be disappointed in you," Cap glowered at him. "Anyone who would fraternize with a known enemy is lower than low."

"Hold up, Captain," Rhodey stepped halfway in front of Tony, defusing the potential for utter disaster. "I might have not known Howard Stark very well, but I know Tony better than you ever will. Anyone of you for that matter; and if I know anything about Tony is that he's the best person I have ever met, and ever will know for that matter; regardless of outside appearances. There is always more to the story.

"Besides, the details do not concern you. Your job is to be the perfect soldier, and inserting your personal feelings into it means you're doing a horrible job. So I'd suggest you keep your feelings to yourself, from one military man to another."

Somehow, even though it seemed impossible, the tension only grew. Cap looked like he might have swallowed his tongue, probably because he couldn't imagine anyone believing Tony was better than Howard; especially someone who was of the same discipline as he was.

"Excuse us, but Tony still has a speech to make. I'm sure you understand." Rhodey grabbed for Tony's shoulder again, and directed him towards the stage situated at the back of the banquet hall.

Obligingly Tony allowed himself to be directed away again. He knew if he'd been halfway near sober, it would have annoyed the hell out of him; but he knew it was being done for his own good. And there wasn't any way he could be angry with Rhodey, especially if he was willing to stand up to the likes of Captain fucking America for him.

Once they were farther away from SHIELD's finest, Rhodey ripped the flute glass from his hand, and steered him towards where Pepper was currently mingling with a strapping young up and comer in clean energy. If Tony remembered correctly, the guy had applied for a high-ranked position within his company not so long ago.

Pepper noticed their approach almost immediately, offering a terse smile. But there was little else that transpired between them; not when the whole building suddenly shook with an explosive force. In a split-second, Tony had been on his feet and was then face-first on the floor; even more disoriented than he had been while under the influence.

The lights flickered on and off, shortly followed by a choir of terrified and shocked screams. Breaking glass and hurried footfall joined the mix; and before long all hell had broken loose. But Tony remained planted on the floor, only lifting his head when two pairs of hands eagerly grabbed onto him, and tried to haul him up.

Rhodey and Pepper were both yelling, their words overlapping one another; he couldn't discern one worry from the next, aside from both of them wanted him to get up. It took several moments before he'd gotten his bearings, and even longer to stagger into a gait with their insistence.

Another explosion shook the building, but Tony remained upright only because he was squashed between Rhodey and Pepper; even though Pepper stumbled on her far too high heels, as they rushed towards the closest exit behind the stage.

By some miracle, they managed to get through the crowd, and to move outside where several more explosions went off one by one. Pepper was screaming into her phone, having pulled it out of thin air as far as Tony was concerned; and he could at least make out what her intention was.

Stampedes of people were flooding the street, just as disoriented and confused as he was. The howl of police sirens, coupled with ambulance ones as well, overwrote another series of explosions, and made it impossible to know what was actually happening except that it could only be the work of some crazed madman.

Tony tried to pull free from Pepper and Rhodey, only to be gripped harder than before, and manhandled into the back of a slick black vehicle. Only when he was shoved to the other end of the seat, did Pepper crawl in, and followed by Rhodey soon thereafter.

"Move out, Happy," Rhodey demanded, patting the back of the passenger's side headrest.

"What's going on?" Tony almost yelled, struggling to look out the window to where a plume of smoke was wafting up from a series of buildings.

"That's irrelevant," Pepper hissed, leveling him with a stern look. "Happy, take us to the mansion!"

"No, fuck that! Take me back there!" Tony whipped around to look at Happy.

"No can do, boss," Happy hit the gas, which sent them farther and farther away from the mayhem.

"You aren't authorized to even use the suit now," Pepper supplied, turning a shade of red which was both a sign of frustration and worry; both of which Tony was very familiar with. "So we're going to the mansion, now!"

"Drop me the fuck off, Happy!" He yelled this time, fueled by adrenaline and undoubtedly what could only be described as insanity; although he could easily deduce anger was a big part of it.

"Like hell you are!" Pepper screeched, shaking from head to toe. "What could a half-drunk Tony Stark do? Absolutely nothing! You're useless now!"

"Tell me how you really feel, Potts," he yelled back.

"That's enough," Rhodey snapped loud enough to shut them both up; before he turned his attention onto Happy instead. "Just hurry, Happy before I decide being blown to pieces is more preferable than this."

It really didn't surprise Tony that his hysterics were overridden by Rhodey's lucidity. Happy drove through the streets at a neck-break speed, determined to get away from the danger; and do so before the streets were packed by like-minded individuals.

Even as Tony stewed about his own helplessness; he knew that they made the right call for him, and that just made him angrier. Angrier because he couldn't do anything to help anyone else, let alone himself. All he could do was stay at home and drink himself into a stupor; and for those few hours, he didn't necessarily have to think about his shortcomings, and the living nightmare he subjected himself to.

At least when he was drunk, he didn't have to remember he was the merchant of fucking death.


	10. Chapter Nine :: Too Much To Lose

**The Art of War**

Chapter Nine

(Too Much To Lose)

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**Author's Note: **We're finally getting somewhere in the story; so I think I can say it's full steam ahead from this point on. :)

As always thank you for all the support and the reviews; it' always makes my day!

This chapter's named after "Too Much To Lose" by the 69 Eyes.

* * *

Sometime in between his brief argument with Pepper, and the point where awkward silence enveloped the backseat's occupants; Tony drew to the horrifying conclusion that if SHIELD had sent their best agents to keep a watchful eye on him in public, then they more than likely had agents based outside of his residence.

Normally that would only be a passing annoyance for him, had it not been for the fact he had another intergalactic Viking living under his roof; and aforementioned intergalactic Viking had also been a key player in the mess that transpired at SHIELD headquarters not so long ago.

Tony already knew from previous experience that SHIELD wouldn't be opposed to breaking into his home, and taking someone captive if they perceived said person as a threat. And anyone of Sif's caliber would ultimately be deemed as a threat by anyone with an IQ higher than eighty.

Panic-ridden, although he masked it fairly well despite his many incapacitations, he dialed Jarvis only to find out his worst fears had materialized. SHIELD did have several agents on the premises, but Jarvis had blocked their access; and luckily they hadn't made contact with his new roomy. They hadn't even seen her, or so Jarvis supplied confidentially.

However, that knowledge didn't cease him from practically jumping out of the car once it was in park, and spying several agents nearby. But his first order of duty was hidden inside, to which he barreled in and was followed by Rhodey, Pepper, and Happy alike.

"Jarvis, where is Sif?" Tony demanded, running into the living room, and yanking the drapes closed just in case those annoying agents attempted to get a peek into the house.

_"Lady Sif has hidden herself quite well, sir. None of the agents, as far as I know, have seen her."_

"That's great and all, but where is she?" He stormed back into the foyer, whipping back and forth, as if someone unwelcome might have slipped in with them.

_"On the second floor, sir,"_

"In her room, I figure,"

_"If that is what we are calling it now, yes," _his AI deadpanned.

"Well, it would be stupid to call it a guest room; especially if her ass is going to be living here from now on. Since, you know, the tear in space has been conveniently closed." He raked his fingers through his hair, before staggering towards the stairs.

Without exchanging any words with his motley crew, Tony ascended the first few steps, and wasn't necessarily surprised that they followed after him. He could almost feel the confusion radiate off of them; but he mostly felt Pepper's feelings irritation more prominently than anything else.

Rather than leave based on principle alone, Pepper still deemed it necessary to keep an eye on him; but it wasn't on the same level as SHIELD. No, Pepper always looked after him, even if they couldn't stand one another, or even if they were on the brink of killing one another (although Tony never felt like he'd want to kill her now or ever).

Whatever the reason may be, she was still there and didn't vocalize any misgivings that she might have had. Instead, everyone followed Tony up the stairs at his pace, only intervening when he almost slipped on the landing as he attempted to sprint down the hallway.

Once he was somewhat balanced, Tony did run down the hallway towards the farthest guest room on the floor. It was as far away as it could be from the master suite, which was undoubtedly intentional. In between his drunken singing and uncontrollable sobbing, it was probably for the best that Sif was as far away from his room as humanly possible.

He threw the door open, hard enough that it bounced off the wall and almost collided with him; had he not blocked the blow with his hand that is. The room was untouched, almost unlived in; the bed was made and there weren't any of Sif's possessions thrown about. Not even her oversized spear was in sight, which made him momentarily panic.

"Where the hell are you, Sif?" He said in a hushed voice, stepping further into the room, only to scramble backwards with a yelp (even though he'd never admit to it) and collided with either Rhodey or Happy once a hand shot out from underneath the bed skirt.

Another hand shot out, but this one was clinging to the missing spear; soon enough a frazzled head followed suit. Sif stared up at them, looking far from amused; but she also didn't make a move to pull herself out from underneath the bed either.

Tony let out the breath he'd been holding, willing his heart to stop beating like a jackhammer. That had been a close one; he really thought for the briefest of moments that she'd somehow slipped past Jarvis. Considering, Sif did have some chummy relationship with his AI; and well, Jarvis proved to be way better company than he was nowadays anyway, so he really didn't know what they were up to.

"I thought you intruders," Sif offered, observing each of them suspiciously; but what was more telling was the fact she spied Tony the same way.

"Yeah, intruders that know your name," Tony replied. "Now get out from under there, and explain what the hell has been going on since I've been out of the house."

The warrior goddess gave him an annoyed look, but drug herself out from underneath the bed with the fluidity of a gymnast. She rose, standing to her full height, and continued to eye them as if they might pass her off to SHIELD; which might very well happen if Pepper had her way.

"The intruders made their presence known soon after your departure," Sif began slowly. "Sir Jarvis informed me of their movement; I only peered out the window momentarily, and spied at least five of them before making myself scarce. If they are from the same organization that held Loki hostage, I presume they would serve the same punishment to me as well."

Tony felt the familiar tightening in his throat, just from hearing Loki's name spoken so casually. It was like a kick to the heart every time; a constant reminder that the green-eyed bastard with the self-righteous attitude was dead.

The Loki who he had held in his arms only a handful of times, the one who choked out his name on command while he buried himself to the hilt inside of him; the memories were innumerable, despite the short time they had together, and it always threatened to drive him crazy. Because he wasn't strong enough to just let sleeping dogs lie, even if he knew it was tearing him apart.

"Let's go downstairs to the workshop; I want to check out the camera feed. Not to mention, what the hell is happening in downtown L.A." He swallowed hard, keenly aware that Rhodey was staring holes into the side of his head; like any best friend would in this sort of situation.

"I haven't heard any happenings within your city," Sif was the first to follow him out of the room, ignoring the rest of the group. "However, I have quite a few things to show you, man of iron. Many of which you have disregarded, despite your promise to me."

"Yeah, well that promise was null and void," he returned shortly, sobering up minute by minute; and boy was that an agonizing experience.

His head was already beginning to ache, and his stomach was somersaulting with every step he took downstairs. He was glad there was a banister to keep him upright, because he might have fallen down the stairs; and he might have even done so on purpose.

Luckily the journey to the workshop was without incident; Tony didn't deliberately try to throw himself down several flights of stairs nor did he have to vomit on his way down either. Pepper didn't protest Sif's presence, Rhodey didn't have to defend him from anyone, and Happy didn't race to the car to wait out any impending fight.

They all clamored into the workshop, a place Tony still found hard to be in for longer than a few minutes at a time; but he made good use of it nonetheless. He pulled up several screens, commanding Jarvis to pull up the security feed, while also dragging up any developing footage on the attacks on downtown Los Angeles.

He reorganized the screens that began to crop up, taking into account which was more important at the moment, before focusing his attention on the several explosions that shook L.A. and the camera feed alike; not to mention a familiar blonde reporter and journalist who almost devoured him mid-coitus a few years ago.

"Jarvis, volume up on the news report," he ordered, catching Christine Everhart in mid-sentence.

_"Captain America has since been seen, attempting to diffuse the situation; although the details are unknown at this time. However, Iron Man has yet to make an appearance; despite the fact a benefit gala was being thrown by Stark Industries only four and a half miles away from the first explosion-"_

"Mute," he hissed, before pulling up another screen with further footage of the attack.

Cap was sporting his red, white, and blue spandex already; while Romanoff and Barton were in their drab uniforms as well. They were in the midst of taking out several doombots; although Cap was attempting to get a good shot at Dr. Doom himself, who was easily deflecting and avoiding any attacks that were thrown at him.

Had Tony even been invited to that party, and sober enough to join the fray, he knew he'd be an asset to the cause. And quite frankly, it took plenty of willpower not to stagger towards the Mark VII, or the prototype for the Mark VIII, and fly his ass over there.

"Doom strikes again," he scowled, only taking his eyes off the screen once Sif saddled up beside him, and drug several unrelated screens up.

She expanded several, rearranging them so they were side-by-side with Doom's destruction, and looked back and forth between them. He eyed them as well, quirking an eyebrow at what he was staring at. The first screen was muddled with Chinese characters; the camera panned across a desolate, burned out section of what was a city; and the second was similar but it showcased an entirely different place than the first.

The third screen was far different than the first two; rather than showing an already decimated city, this footage showed a city on fire. But it wasn't just on fire; it was consumed by the weirdest fire Tony had ever seen. Black flames lapped up the sides of several buildings, almost completely destroying the structures within a few seconds flat.

Sif motioned between the screens she pulled up, and the one where several doombots had been turned into fireballs, no doubt by Barton's customized arrows that Tony personally designed for him. And he immediately picked up what she was trying to say, before the words even left her mouth.

"Doom couldn't have pulled that off," Tony mumbled, crossing his arms, and studying the footage closer than before. "And if he could, well why wouldn't he level out L.A. too?"

"This footage," Sif motioned to the first screen. "Is from a place called Hong Kong; it was the first to be struck; whereas this footage is from a place called Shanghai. And this one, which has currently been struck by Hel's flames, is called Moscow in the land of Russia."

"Have you heard about this?" Tony motioned at the screens with one hand, directing the question at Rhodey.

"Of course, I have. This has been a growing concern for the government; considering Hong Kong has been struck the hardest by this peculiar phenomenon. Now we have to deal with Shanghai, Moscow, and Taipei on top of that." Rhodey leaned over and tapped on one of the other screens, much smaller than the other three; which pulled up footage from Taiwan. "And we have reason to believe Japan and both Koreas will be hit very soon; although the pattern of attacks, well it's chaotic at best."

"May I?" Sif asked, although Tony suspected she'd do whatever she wanted even if he told her no.

Rather than test that theory, he motioned for her to make good use of the screens. With eased practice, Sif swiped all the screens away, and called on Jarvis to upload some grainy footage that only an amateur could have filmed. From his estimation, Tony believed the footage was from an iPhone and an older version at that; since the camera was a disgrace.

To add insult to injury, the footage was not only grainy but absurdly dark. Tony squinted, trying to discern what exactly he was looking at. And it was only after several moments, did he realize he was staring at black cloaked figure that flicked his wrist and set an entire apartment complex on fire. But that might have been a stretch of the imagination; since the footage was that bad.

"What is this?" He asked, before commanding Jarvis to rewind the footage.

"This, man of iron," Sif jutted her finger at the screen almost violently. "Happens to be documented proof of the bringer; a citizen of Hong Kong captured his likeness on your Midgardian technology."

"The bringer; and what exactly is the bringer?" Pepper piped up, looking beyond skeptical.

"Oh you know, the Antichrist," Tony grinned. "But lady warrior here thinks we're in the midst of the Viking apocalypse; and she's been trying to convince me of that for over a month. Except I've been kind of occupied,"

"Drinking your spirits, and being of no help to me," Sif practically snarled. "I have been in need of a way home to Asgard; and this man of science has proven only to be nothing more than a disappointment of sorts."

"So you two aren't actually sleeping together?" Pepper asked confusedly; which Tony would have found it endearing, had they not just been in an argument less than an hour beforehand.

Sif only graced her with the most disgusted look on the planet, which spoke volumes. And well if Tony felt hurt, he wasn't about to say anything about it. He had far bigger problems on his hands than if the warrior goddess found him appalling or not. But he suspected her disgust was an extension of his relations with Loki rather than just based solely on looks alone.

Pain crept into his chest suddenly, and he forced himself to study the video footage again. This time he watched as Cap, Romanoff, and Barton demolished half a dozen doombots; before attempting to go after the source of the problem. Doom proved to be a slippery bastard, and seemed to use his own batch of sorcery to get away without a single scratch.

Maybe if he'd been there, at least he could have blasted Doom a few times. But of course, he wasn't welcomed in the company of the self-righteous perfect soldier, and assassins one and two. Which was just fine; he never was a team player anyway, and he wasn't about to start now.

"Man of iron," Sif spoke up again, drawing him from his reverie. "I demand you take me to speak with the leader who dispatched your fellow warriors and surrounded your home. I must alert him to the bringer's appearance in this realm; then I must find a way to return to Asgard as soon as possible."

"Like Nick fucking Fury is going to believe the world's going to end. Because let's be honest sister, your story is pretty farfetched at best; and just because some guy got shitty cell-phone footage of a guy in a long black cape that doesn't translate to the Antichrist, coming to absolve the world with fire. Besides, that video could be a hoax like the Loch Ness Monster and Bigfoot."

"It is not a hoax," Sif slammed her fist into the workbench, sneering at him. "Many of your greatest cities have been destroyed, your fellow citizens slaughtered, and you call this a hoax? Your world is in peril and you will allow it to burn out of your sheer skepticism?

"Might I remind you, the existence of gods within this realm is highly improbable as well? But I stand before you as solid as any of your machines. Thor, who stood beside you and fought with you as a brother in arms, certainly was not a figment of your imagination! Nor was Lo-"

"Okay, I get your point," he snapped brusquely. "But I can't guarantee Fury's going to open his arms to either one of us, and listen to his insanity either. And for that matter, I can't keep you safe if he decides you need to be taken into custody. I already put my ass on the fire, and quite frankly I don't like you that much to do it again."

"I demand you request an audience with him," Sif glowered at him, before turning on her heel to leave. "I can no longer sit idly by as the bringer continues to cause unfathomable horrors."

Only when Sif had ascended the stairs, and was finally out of earshot did Tony let out a frustrated noise; he raked his fingers through his hair, and stared at the looping footage from L.A. to Taipei. Clearly there was something going on; but he couldn't say with utmost certainty that it was the end of the world.

This black caped figure could have easily been another super-villain in the making. Just because he might have very well been the cause of mass destruction, didn't make him any harbinger of the apocalypse; that was a whole lot of religious bullshit he didn't want to get into. Or maybe it was a whole lot of mythological bullshit he didn't want to get into. Either way, there was always a sound explanation behind things like this. But he'd been too drunk to figure one out of yet.

"I know this is, you know, important stuff, boss," Happy lumbered up beside him. "But how long have you been hiding her in your mansion?"

"She's been stranded here for a while," he muttered noncommittally.

"And she doesn't seem to be interested in you,"

"What is your point, Hogan?"

"I was just, you know-"

"Do you really think she'd pick you over me? Come on, the only one with a shot is Rhodey because he's into blowing shit up. You just drive a car, which she might think is a mythical, metal dragon for a while. But the illusion can't last forever." He rolled his eyes. "Now I need to sober up, and try to figure out what the hell is going on. You know, with all due respect."

Rhodey got the message first, followed shortly by a disgruntled looking Happy. They both gave him fleeting goodbyes; or in Happy's case, an unpleasant glower, before they mounted the stairs and made their way to the first floor.

Pepper stayed behind, lingering on the edge of his peripheral; but he chose not to address her, since his ego was still bruised after their bickering. And he really couldn't imagine what she would want; unless she still thought it was necessary to yell at him for his drinking.

"Tony," she finally spoke up, drawing his attention away from the screens. "I just want to tell you I'm sorry. You didn't deserve to be yelled at, especially since I clearly jumped to conclusions. So I really wanted to apologize to you."

"No reason to apologize, I kissed her," he pulled up the security footage. "So technically I'm still a bastard."

"An honest bastard, I guess," Pepper sighed, but that didn't stop her from pressing a tentative kiss to his temple. "Take care of yourself, and I mean it."

"I don't really have a choice at this point. It's either clean myself up or die." He smiled thinly, leaning against the work bench. "But don't worry about me. I'll figure it out."

Pepper nodded, although she looked unconvinced. Regardless of her reservations, and the terse understanding that they might have come to, she still left him be; which was exactly what he wanted. He needed to work after all; and he needed to do so without anyone buzzing around him unnecessarily.

Maybe he finally hit rock bottom; or maybe he just hit the bottom before the real bottom. Either way, he focused on the screens in front of him, loosening the bowtie around his neck, and decided that he needed solid information to take to Fury if he was going to call him up with some insane notion that the end was near.

Because really the last thing he needed attached to his confidential file, was that he was one of those conspiracy theorist people. That was worse than being labeled a narcissistic traitor.


	11. Chapter Ten :: Horizon

**The Art of War**

Chapter Ten

(Horizon)

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**Author's Note: **I figured I might as well put this up now; I really think this chapter is one of the best so far. And well, I think there will be an interesting development in it. So I hope you enjoy it; and as always review are always appreciated (and make me very happy). :)

This chapter's named after "Horizon" by Assemblage 23.

* * *

SHIELD had been inundated with a cluster-fuck of information all within a short period of time. To the point where Nick found it almost impossible to keep track of which detail belonged to which case. He had information up to his ears about the recent attacks overseas, not to mention the domestic problems involving Doom; so the last thing he really needed was to see Tony Stark and a hostile goddess on his metaphorical doorstep.

Stark looked positively peachy, despite the many reports to the contrary. He didn't look intoxicated or unkempt; in fact, he looked as camera ready as he always did. And just to aggravate the situation further, Stark was wearing his trademark shit-eating grin.

"Nick, Nick, Nick," Stark greeted him, opening his arms as if to embrace him. "It's been way too long since we've seen one another."

"Trust me, not long enough," he returned, moving away from him. "You better explain what the hell you're doing here, Stark. I have the right mind to throw you in a cell, and throw away the key."

On principle alone, Nick felt compelled to follow through with his threat. More so even, once he overlooked both Barton's and Romanoff's reports from their time in Hong Kong. Both had confirmed without a shadow of a doubt that Loki was still on the planet and the cause behind the mass destruction on the other side of the world.

Of course, this was the only type of information that really drew skepticism from Nick. Mostly because these new set of skills were far beyond what Loki was known for. While the god was incredibly powerful; there hadn't been any clear indication that he could decimate cities within days of attacking them, and without the help of an army.

But that hadn't deterred him for sending an envoy of agents to keep a closer eye on Stark. Considering what had transpired between him and the chaos god, it was only smart to assume that Loki would make contact with Stark or vice-versa; except that hadn't happened so far; or at least within the past few days.

"Trust me, this is the last place I want to be," Stark dropped his normal jovial and cocky personality, instead opting for somber. "And I know for a fact, this is the last place you want me to be too. So let's skip all the formalities and get down to the meat of the matter."

"I am all ears," he glowered, although his attention had been leveled onto the goddess shoulder to shoulder with Stark.

Anyone from Asgard was a hostile in his book; and he couldn't say he was very happy by the deal he made with the previous gods he'd been in contact with. Not only did he not have Loki's head on his desk, it might have very well been attached to the bastard's neck still, and said bastard could have very easily been the one killing people and destroying cities left and right.

He really should have taken her into custody right when she stepped foot on the base; but he reserved himself to hear whatever Stark wanted to say beforehand. Although he had reason to believe, it was probably just a whole lot of bullshit.

"I'm still fuzzy on some of the details about what happened almost two months ago, but that's irrelevant," Stark motioned dismissively. "Anyway you're probably wondering why I have this hottie warrior goddess with me, well I'll tell you. Somehow the Aesir were using a tear in space to pass through different dimensions, or realms as they like to call them. But while she was paying me a visit, the tear closed right around the time the sky went crazy."

"What the hell are you trying to say?"

"In other words, something weird happened on their side of the universe, coinciding with the unexplained events here of late. You know all these crazy-ass attacks in Asia and now in Russia." Stark supplied, before hooking his thumb at the goddess beside him. "And the little lady here thinks she has the answer to all of it. But disclaimer here – we are not on the same page about it."

Nick recognized the flash of annoyance on the goddess's face, which frequently coincided with his own reaction towards Stark. No one was safe, hostile alien or not, from Stark's ability to drive someone completely and utterly mad.

"So you figured bringing me this explanation, without any merit behind it, was a good thing?" Nick asked slowly, a split-second away from busting a blood vessel; since the last thing he needed was to hear a lot of nonsense; which he suspected this meeting was geared towards.

"With all due respect, the man of iron has been incapacitated and hasn't any right to speak involving this matter," the goddess spoke, shooting Stark a nasty look. "I have brought him evidence that would inevitably support what I have to say; and much of it he disregarded immediately. Or he simply refused to listen to what I have had to say; therefore, I wanted an audience with you, in hopes that you would listen to my explanation without prejudice."

"Good luck on that one," Stark scoffed.

"Trust me, I won't be easily swayed by your explanation; since I trust you Aesir as far as I can throw you," Nick motioned at the conference table reluctantly; and was quickly annoyed by how fast Stark clamored into the nearest seat.

Following Stark's example, the goddess took a seat beside him; which spoke volumes to Nick. Even if there was a rift between them; they were still on the same side. And any alliance that Stark made had the potential for disaster; especially since the Aesir seemed to have taken up Stark's cause for no other apparent reason than keeping Loki away from SHIELD.

"I imagine it would be worth your while to listen to what I have to say," the goddess said seriously, folding her hands together on top of the table. "This situation could bring your entire realm to ruin, if you do not attempt to dissuade the perpetrator."

Nick bit his tongue, coming very close to revealing that he knew of Loki's reappearance. But that knowledge needn't be revealed to anyone outside of SHIELD, especially to the likes of Stark. After all, he might already know and tip off the chaos god; or if he didn't, well Nick wasn't about to exacerbate the problem with getting Stark involved again.

Pacing the length of the room, Nick waited to hear whatever brought the odd couple into his territory. He knew it would inevitably be a waste of his time, and he was already mapping out plenty of ways to make Stark suffer just for the hell of it.

"Amuse me," he finally said, feeling his annoyance rise already.

"You must be aware of these unfortunate incidents that have befallen your realm,"

"Oh, I heard a few things," he affirmed, gazing at Stark who was slouching in his seat.

"Then you must realize the unusual circumstances surrounding them," the goddess continued, albeit with some hesitance. "The flames that have destroyed your cities are by no means normal flames."

"I figured as much, since they are black," Nick paused in his pacing, resting his hands on his hips.

"Those are Hel's flames; they destroy everything within seconds. No one has the ability to wield such power, unless it was Niflheim's ruler. And she has not left her realm in centuries." She paused, only to look at him with something akin to desperation. "There's only one sound explanation for this, and that's Ragnarök."

The word was not unknown to Nick; in fact, he had done his homework once he learned of Thor. It was always his motto to know your enemy better than yourself (of course if you could, and weren't rear ended by them without any forewarning); and he knew exactly what Ragnarök was.

Stark rolled his eyes, forever the skeptic; and yet Nick wasn't anywhere near convinced of it either. Certainly SHIELD was bombarded with its fair share of supernatural phenomenon; but to believe that the apocalypse was in full motion really wasn't something he'd readily believe so easily.

"You believe we are in the midst of the apocalypse?" He asked, keeping his skepticism at bay. "And why exactly is that? Isn't there an, how do you say it, event that inevitably sets it into motion?"

The goddess eyes brightened, as if she'd been waiting for someone to broach the topic with her, without immediately discounting it altogether. Stark, in turn, only rolled his eyes again; which would explain why his new friend was so eager, no less happy, that Nick would even entertain her after she brought up the word Ragnarök.

"Only the All-Father and Heimdall, the gatekeeper, knew of what would set Ragnarök into motion. But I believe it was the death of Lord Baldur, mayhap even Loki."

"The same Baldur who sent the god of war to negotiate Stark's fate?"

"You speak of Tyr," she affirmed.

"Hold on just a second," Stark suddenly became animated, beyond his perpetual eye rolling. "What do you mean the god of war was negotiating my fate?"

Nick couldn't help but give him a hardened smile; of course Stark wouldn't be aware of what had happened, since he'd been unconscious during the whole ordeal. And it was nice to know he had some information that Stark did not. He had yet to forgive him for his many hack jobs on SHIELD's computer systems.

"They were very convincing to say the least," he said. "Except Asgard didn't live up to their end of the bargain; I haven't gotten Laufeyson's head yet."

Stark tensed almost immediately; there was only way to describe his reaction and that was horror. Had it been any other people, Nick might have actually felt bad; but since it was Stark and Loki, he couldn't even muster up any sort of sympathy for them.

After several terse moments, Stark managed to hide the horror on his face; but Nick couldn't help but catch the sharp look Stark passed onto his companion. It was apparent that they would have some sort of conversation once they left the premises; well, if he didn't decide to toss the warrior goddess into custody that is.

"But I'm pretty sick and tired of talking about you, Stark. I rather hear about what your friend has to say."

"The Lady Sif of Asgard, goddess of war," Sif provided helpfully.

"It's a pleasure, Lady Sif; now with all due respect, I want to hear what you have to say about Ragnarök now. I really don't have patience for a long drawn out conversation; not when I have major cities going up in flames."

"Very well," she nodded. "As I mentioned beforehand, Lord Baldur has died-"

"That is just speculation, because you don't have any direct contact with Asgard; and your Viking senses don't count either." Stark butted in unhelpfully. "Provided Baldur might have died, and maybe you do have a sixth sense when it comes to that; but how could one singular event like that set the whole fucking apocalypse into motion?"

"Some could argue that it only takes one death to set anything into motion. Does Archduke Franz Ferdinand sound familiar?" Nick crossed his arms, feeling a rush of self-satisfaction at the look on Stark's face.

"So you are actually buying into this, Nick?"

"I'd buy into anything that directly contradicts you, Stark. Now let her finish the story already; or at least let her explain the details further. Can you let her do that, Stark? Or is it impossible to keep your big-ass mouth shut?"

Stark slouched further in his seat, in no way happy to be told to shut up. But both of them knew the faster they got this over with, the sooner they would be away from one another. And that was the only thing Nick wanted at the moment; since he couldn't control the urge to kick Stark's ass forever.

"I believe Lord Baldur's death was the key event that inevitably caused Ragnarök to begin. It makes sense, once I took into account many things over the centuries. Particularly the fact that Lord Baldur and Loki were kept apart from one another; and yet, once they were left alone for a period of time Lord Baldur ended up dead which caused…" Sif trailed away, before her eyes widened in shock. "The bringer, the harbinger, I know who he is!"

She stood from her seat abruptly; her whole body shook from whatever conclusion she had come to, as if the knowledge might very well drive her to the brink of madness. Stark stared up at her, but masked any emotion that he might be having behind a guise of nonchalance.

It took several moments of jerky motions, and utterances in what could only be in Old Norse; before Sif collapsed back in her chair, with a haunted look in her eyes. Nick found this to be a cause for concern, especially if it could cause such an extreme reaction; but he didn't vocalize his concerns, not yet anyway.

"It has always been said that a bringer would come, who would plunge each realm into mayhem. And once I became aware of the many events within your realm, and seen Hel's flames; I knew it could only be the bringer." Sif's voice cracked, before she pressed a hand to her forehead. "I just hadn't expected it to be him."

"Lady Sif, will you kindly tell us who this bringer is? While I can sympathize with you, since this is evidently very traumatic for you; my patience his running very thin at this point."

"None other than the trickster god himself; it's Loki. Loki is the harbinger of Ragnarök." She peered up at him from underneath dark eyelashes. "And the only way to stop Ragnarök is to kill the bringer. We must kill Loki."

Nick only paused for half a beat, before he began to pace the room again. He ignored the sharp intake of breath that undoubtedly came from Stark; and he chose to ignore the bark of laughter that sounded mangled and inhuman as well. Instead, he took into account what Romanoff and Barton wrote about their encounter with the god.

They had exchanged very few words with him, but the ones that they had were now telling in retrospect. Romanoff had reported once she mentioned Loki's name, for whatever reason he immediately denied it; not to mention the fact he was so damned intrigued with fire and destruction, rather than his previous head games really seemed to support, at least somewhat, what Sif was saying.

Before he could get the rest of his thoughts in order, Nick looked up to see Stark shoving away from the conference table with a conflicted expression on his face. Denial, anger, and disbelief were combating for dominance on the pain in the ass's face; but none of them won out for longer than a few moments.

"Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit," Stark declared, which was punctuated by a hopeless sounding laugh. "Nick, you are not going to believe all this supernatural bullshit, are you? There's one thing to believe in gods and magic, and then there's another to think some god's death can cause the end of the world! And to even suggest that Loki fucking Laufeyson is the goddamn Antichrist is another altogether! Loki's dead!"

"I didn't say I believed anything, Stark. So why don't you calm down."

"Loki is dead," Stark slammed his fist against the table, which jarred Sif from her reverie. "He marched to his execution like a good little soldier. So the notion he's going to end the world, makes me sick!"

"As much as I do not know that Lord Baldur is dead, you haven't any clue if Loki is either," Sif said in a monotonic voice. "And everything makes sense; it points to Loki being the bringer, man of iron."

"Will you stop calling me that?" Stark screamed, slamming both fists into the tabletop. "My name is Tony fucking Stark! And nothing points to Loki being some bringer of the apocalypse; absolutely nothing; zilch, nil, nada!"

"Calm down, Stark," Nick said slowly. "SHIELD will investigate these claims; however, we only have the destruction left behind to study. Not to mention, we also have that pest Doom to handle on top of it all."

Nick decided then and there, neither Stark nor Sif needed to know that Romanoff and Barton had made contact with Loki. Or what might very well be some hybrid of the god; adding more people into the loop, would only cause all hell to break loose. And Stark was already on thin ice, if not already falling into the water.

"What are you going to investigate, Nick; some stupid myth, a hunch that our local alien goddess just came up with? Because as far as I'm concerned, you'll be wasting your time! This, all of this, is a work of some fucked up, depraved super-villain! So why don't you investigate that, instead of entertaining this bullshit!" Stark was close to screaming; every vein popped out in his neck, and Nick really knew he was that far gone.

Provided he had his suspicions once he realized Stark was in love with a well-documented war criminal; but now he was certain any hope for Stark was dashed. He couldn't go back to being Iron Man; especially if it meant potentially having to face-off against Loki.

If Stark had his way, he'd probably let the world end if he had to choose between that and killing the god of chaos. And well, Nick liked the idea of the world continuing far more than he liked the idea of Loki. Since he technically never really liked him at all to begin with; and he would have been better off without encountering him at all.

"Go home, Stark. My business does not coincide with yours; unless you can give me an alternative explanation for these unnatural phenomenons. And trust me, I'm not all on board with her explanation either; but it's better to keep our eyes open, than to be blindsided in the end." He returned nonchalantly, before walking towards several mounted LED screens. "I have plenty of work to do, none of which is related to the end of the world. So kindly get the hell out."

Stark made good use of his time; Nick heard him exchange several harsh and unpleasant words with his companion, and what undoubtedly was a bit of a struggle; before two sets of footsteps echoed off the wall, and disappeared within seconds.

Once he was sure both parties were gone, Nick pulled up both Romanoff's and Barton's reports. Each of them described in vivid detail what they had witnessed; and both described encountering the god of mischief, and how he didn't seem like his usual, manic self.

"Evil, huh," Nick read the word aloud, before eyeing the picture of the god from his last time on Earth. "Why am I not surprised?"


	12. Chapter Eleven :: And Bringer of Sadness

**The Art of War**

Chapter Eleven

(...And Bringer of Sadness)

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**Author's Note: **This chapter came rather rapidly; I really have to say I enjoy writing for Loki (or not!Loki as it is). There's something almost poetic about him, maybe...?

Anyway this chapter was written to "...And Bringer of Sadness" by Sopor Aeternus and the Ensemble of Shadows.

As always I hope you enjoy the chapter; and thanks for the continued support! :D

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Thick, pregnant snowflakes drifted from the graying skies; cleansing the charred debris of what once stood a proud city. Mammoth buildings, intricately designed roads and bridges, and the eclectic number of people had fallen into ruin. Only ash remained; as did the few bones which remained vigilant underneath the smolder of the fire's flames.

He sat in the infinite silence, upon a makeshift throne of cinder, bits of concrete and warped metal; and he observed what he had done. The mayhem, the chaos that coursed through his veins had become a reality; a burned-out, blackened reality.

The wails were still audible in his ears; the roar of the flames as they devoured indiscriminately, and the mindless, unflappable need to destroy remained with him, even replayed themselves in vivid color. Every horror that he brought forth upon such creatures, would not be forgotten; in fact, he wished to keep the memories close to him. Because something had connected within him; one might even call it peace.

He hadn't believed it possible to satiate the beast within him, if only temporarily. And yet he felt contented to stare upon the rapidly whitening landscape, while he rolled a small child-like skull in his dominant hand. He had salvaged it from the wreckage, and found an unexplainable fondness for it; mayhap he would carry it as a good luck charm, although such charms were unneeded for luck was already on his side.

He had been blessed with purpose, after all. Luck was merely superstition; fate always dictated what the end result would be. Trinkets that spanned from Alfheim to Svartalfheim could not alter what was inevitably to come. Nothing could cease his destruction; neither could he stop it, even if the notion was utterly laughable.

For what else did he exist for, beyond his purpose? There was only one thing he strove for; he only desired to end each wretched realm by his own skillful hand. He wished, wanted for everything to burn; and mayhap he too would feel that awful burn, and dissipate into nothing more that cinders and bone.

The howl of the wind fleeted past him, reaching with tiny fingers towards him, and clinging to his much heavier cloak which was adorned at the neck with raven feathers. Huginn and Muninn proved to be worthwhile after their demise; and he took great pleasure as the feathers brushed along the hollows of his cheeks.

His mouth twitched, before he allowed himself to smile. He rolled the skull lazily along his palm, taking great care not to crush it; albeit his fingers trembled as if in need to harm something, as he had the All-Father's ravens not so long ago. If only to experience the familiar breaking of bone, and to be blessed with the sound of it falling to pieces under his insistence; he wished for the cacophony of death.

He leaned back into pieces of sharp, indiscernible shrapnel; and fully admired his handiwork. It had only been hours ago, that there had been breaths of life; while he demolished much of it within days, there were still so many mortals left behind. Their tear-stained faces, their prayers for mercy, and finally their acceptance of their fate had existed seconds, minutes, and hours ago.

They had been of flesh and bone; they had been resilient creatures of the harsh winters, and the harsher nature of their kind. But no one could withstand him; he would not allow anyone to survive his purpose. They didn't deserve mercy; they were only insects that fleeted annoyingly about him, and begged to be swatted away.

He had done them a great service; they had only witnessed a small portion of his capabilities. He had been kind to them, although the same could not be said about the others. The many, faceless mortals whom remained utterly ignorant to his cause; the ones who so foolishly attempted to injure him, to slaughter him, to destroy him.

The Widow and the Hawk; he knew not how he knew them. They had seemed so small and insignificant; and yet his mind resonated in remembrance and familiarity towards them. The Widow's scarlet hair and her cold eyes; the Hawk and his chiseled features and steady-fast hands; he was familiar with such things, although the shadows hindered his sight, and banished their likeness as soon as it unearthed it.

He only knew of a vow he had made so long ago; he would end the Widow. Since her likeness was particularly vivid, interwoven with small pains and large pains alike; he felt them deep within his bones, as if they had only been inflicted days before.

But they too were fleeting; as fleeting as the disjointed conversations inside his head. Much of which had grown tired and inaudible; there were far too many, far too many words, and none but one voice bothered him so. But even then, the clearness in which it dictated its words had grown dim and meaningless.

Such occurrences had all but grown silent; which left him to his own devices. The mutterings of solitude were the only things that kept him company; and he found himself enjoying them, as they whispered their sweet nothings into his ear, and prided in the way he sought and destroyed.

He was contented in madness, and he strove to create it. His existence relied on it; whilst his existence of old held no merit whatsoever. Revenge that he once harbored so greatly then, only served as fuel for his purpose and nothing more.

"I have finally found you," someone with a rich baritone, suddenly whispered on the wind; a tiny demon that threatened to ruin the peace he had ultimately created by chaos.

Calmly he turned his head and observed the creature that had broken his reverie. The creature was made of flesh and metal, cloaked in ever-green and built brilliantly. He was tall but possessed visible strength; and he spoke in a tongue that was heavily influenced by many, as if he traveled extensively within his realm.

His face was obscured by a mask, although his eyes were alive and spoke of unknown horrors and madness; and mayhap they would have been brethren in arms if fate hadn't dictated otherwise. The creature took weighty and lumbering steps towards him; stepping on ash and bone alike, and finding no need to correct his actions.

It was only when he stood several feet away that the creature paused and studied him with interest and wariness. He too graced the creature with a similar expression; before his lips twisted into a secretive grin.

"You are the cause of this," the creature stated, although he didn't sound entirely impressed. "As you have been the cause of the other incidents, am I right?"

"Aye," he affirmed, almost a whisper against the wind.

"And you intend to continue as such,"

"Aye,"

"I know of you," the creature observed him closely, before stepping along the debris that encompassed the immediate area; albeit it spanned mile upon mile.

Wood let way underneath the creature's heavy feet; snow and cinder became one entity under his insistence, and turned a dull and unimpressive gray. But he could only watch as the creature paced and studied the length of his powers.

"I know of you," the creature repeated after several terse moments. "You were the one who brought mass destruction upon New York City. But you were unsuccessful in your attempts to rule."

He tilted his head, struck by a temporary moment of familiarity. That sounded oddly appropriate for someone of his caliber; and yet he could not pry anything from the depths of his mind's abyss. Such recollections always remained along the fray, but they never had the ability to crossover into consciousness.

The creature paused in his movements, standing far closer than he had before. He could smell the metal and the newly fallen snow on his cape; he could also smell calculation and ill-intent upon him as well.

"You employed an alien army to help you," the creature continued slowly. "And yet you failed at the hands of mortals. Insignificant little mortals no less; while you, yourself, claimed to be a god."

"I claimed nothing," he drawled, lifting the skull for his own inspection. "For I remember not of what you speak of; mayhap you have mistaken me for someone else."

"Ah, I have not," the creature pressed; now standing only an arm's length away. "Your likeness had been well-documented. No one could mistake you for someone else, Loki Laufeyson."

Something feral simmered inside of him; albeit it was a low simmer that was kept at bay due to his previous contentment. He had heard that name many times; it had been spoken as if a curse, a horribly unpleasant thing that was meant to be mocked and ridiculed. And he was not keen to it and what it entailed.

"I have heard that name often, as if it were a mantra spoken by obtuse souls," he furrowed his brow, as he rolled the skull again with his fingers; but this time he implemented his second hand into the motion.

"Obtuse souls, you say?" The creature bellowed loudly. "No, I don't think that is the case at all, dear Laufeyson. In fact, I believe you are the one who is being obtuse. After all, you are denying your own identity; although, I suppose I would as well if I was beaten so soundly."

He turned sharply to stare at the metal covered man, and felt that awful simmer again. But this time its intensity only grew; it willed him to unleash it, to wield the chaos underneath its weight. And yet he denied it, if only to feed his curiosity of what stood before him.

This creature, on further inspection, was no more feral and foreign than any other mortal. Except he smelled of magic, which seemed to be deeply seeded within core; but his magic was very basic in comparison to his own. It was not to say that his magic was by any means weak; for it could overcome a group of mortals without fail. However, it could not do any damage to him; as nothing now could.

He moved the child skull between his hands; his actions grew speedier as the silence expanded. It was only after he observed the twitch from his unwelcome visitor, that he paused in his actions, and grinned bright and savage, exposing all his teeth.

"Laufeyson is no name of mine," he enunciated very slowly, as if he was speaking to an invalid. "If you have come for Laufeyson, you will find that you have wasted your time. And you have wasted my time in turn. If you cannot see, I have much yet to do. So I will bid you farewell."

"I think not," the creature returned, now closing the distance between them. "I do not fall for such tricks; although I am disappointed that one called the trickster god would, in fact, be so unimaginative in his lies."

"How many times must I say it, until you understand?" He hissed, almost tossing the skull between his hands in rapidity. "I am not Laufeyson. I am not any god. I am not any giant. I am not who you speak of; I do not know of who you speak of. And it would prove worth your while, if you step away and allow me my space."

Even as he spoke such words, the creature reached for him with a quick hand. His metal covered fingers gripped his throat, stole the air from him, and threatened to crush his windpipe. The skull fell from his hands, bounced off his foot, and was forgotten somewhere in the debris.

The hand tightened a tad more, and the creature's masked face loomed before his eyes. It was an ugly, mangled mask whose mouth was firmly frozen in neutrality. But his eyes were alive with ferocity and violence, and every demented thought that coursed through his brain.

"I will not step aside, nor will I give you your space," the creature snarled, using his impressive strength to lift him from his seated position. "I do not take kindly to your presence; nor will I allow you to attempt world domination once more. For you've proven yourself unworthy of a throne; whereas, I am a ruler and shall have the world for myself."

His vision began to grow hazy and his faculties were slowing to a complete stop. He dangled within the creature's grasp, drawing closer to the darkest and sweetest of releases. Death's embrace was a stone's throw away, and he yearned for the briefest of moments to run to it, mayhap to remember. He only had to remain as limp and useless a rag doll; for it would be simple.

And yet that savagery roared to life with renewed vigor. Heat as deadly as Hel's flames enveloped his entire body; every organ, every limb was on fire. He felt it course through his veins, until everything turned white-hot, and suddenly the darkest of blacks that was beyond comprehension and understanding overruled it.

The darkness roiled in his center until it burst free of him in an explosive fireball. The hand around his neck was forced away, as was the body that had threatened his own. It was thrown with a surprised yell far away from him; although the darkness did not subside. Oh no, it only grew and undulated until he could only see in shadows, and he could only feel wrath of the highest order.

He fell into a crouch, and felt bone shatter underneath his hand. Its jangled and mangled edges pierced his glove and drew blood. But there was no pain; there wasn't anything but the all-consuming darkness that had enveloped him whole.

He snarled like a beast of prey, before he barreled forward through fallen buildings and their skeletal remains. The sounds of moans echoed nearby; the sounds of the creature, whom so foolishly placed his hands on him. And the same creature whose death he would have; whose throat would be torn away by his teeth.

Snow flurries whipped about him, growing heavier than before. And yet the whiteness was lost to him; darkness was the only thing that he could see. It had become him; it was the only thing that mattered.

He was no longer an entity, a being with thought or sight or voice. It was only darkness and shadows and madness and sadness.

And this was his reckoning.


	13. Chapter Twelve:: It Was A Very Good Year

**The Art of War**

Chapter Twelve

(It Was A Very Good Year)

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**Author's Note: **Well, I hope you enjoy this chapter; I think it turned out okay, although I'm really excited to write the next one (so I don't know if it'll come easily or be difficult, but let's hope for the former). But anyway I hope you look forward to it as well!

Also I just want to thank you guys for the continued support; I've gotten such lovely comments, and I cannot thank you enough!

And finally I listened to Frank Sinatra's "It Was A Very Good Year" while writing this; I don't know if it's fitting lyric wise, but I suppose the reminiscing in this chapter might constitute as being similar in nature. So sorry if I sent you through a loop with this song selection!

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Tony yelled himself hoarse; his many rants and raves, threats and insults had filled the mansion for several hours now. Once he had stepped over the threshold, Tony turned on Sif and unleashed all his anger and confusion on her; and for whatever reason, she had simply taken it without any protest whatsoever; which made him that much more angry.

He was angry but mostly overwhelmed. Overwhelmed by the sheer number of emotions that he had; he had always, somehow, managed to keep his feelings in check. Even when Obie had betrayed him, he managed to bury away all the hurt and betrayal, and make something better of himself.

Regardless of the situation, he had been able to keep himself in line. It wasn't to say that he hadn't fallen apart frequently; but he'd never felt like this. He never knew he could feel so strongly about another person; even stronger than he felt towards Pepper.

Maybe it was the trauma of losing Loki so suddenly, that really made it that much more intense. And maybe the realization that he'd been entangled with a mass murderer also sent his feelings into a tizzy; since everything that encompassed his tryst with Loki was drama-addled and dangerous.

People had been killed; even gods had been killed. Outside sources had been affected by his decisions, and Tony couldn't find any solace in that. He couldn't condone his feelings for Loki, when there was so much destruction in its wake. And yet, he really couldn't control how he felt; he couldn't shut it off and pretend like it never happened.

He hadn't been able to control his outburst against Sif either. It had erupted in him like a volcano, spilling out all his pent up emotions that he leveled out with drunkenness. He couldn't keep them buried away any longer, especially after the ludicrous talk that had taken place at SHIELD headquarters. Not when Sif was so damn sure that Loki was the cause for all that destruction overseas; and that he might actually be the harbinger to the end of the world.

It was too much for him to handle; having to deal with Loki's death was bad enough. But having to deal with something of that caliber, was another thing altogether. And he couldn't handle it; he really couldn't.

After his tirade, his inexplicably long one, Tony curled onto one side of the L-shaped sofa with a steaming hot mug of coffee in hand. He couldn't even bring himself to go through his liquor cabinet; because he was sure adding alcohol into the mix, might only drive him over the edge. Although, he was certain he wouldn't have anyone to stop him from drinking himself under the table either.

Sif had taken refuge on the back of the sofa, perched there with an unreadable look on her face. She hadn't moved since he ripped into her; and she didn't even protest when he kicked at her booted feet and demanded that she take them off the couch. Which she didn't do anyway, but that was irrelevant at this point.

He sipped at his coffee, staring at an undetermined point ahead of him. Frank Sinatra played in the background, which was an anomaly all on its own. His father had been a fan, and maybe Tony just wanted to conjure up further unpleasantness in his mind. Whatever the reason, he found it oddly soothing from the chaos that had become his life, no less his mind.

"I apologize to you," Sif spoke softly, in a voice unlike her usual one. "I realize that you were unprepared for my declaration; although in my defense, I was also surprised by it. The possibility seemed farfetched to me as well, until I realized many things throughout the duration of time that I had been acquainted with Loki."

Slowly Tony sat up, before he looked towards Sif. He hadn't seen her like this before; she looked distressed and unhappy, and a slew of other things that he couldn't precisely name. But it was clear that she hadn't gotten any satisfaction by pointing the finger at Loki. Considering, she had known him for thousands of years; and even if Loki was his usual shitty self, he figured still accusing him of being the Antichrist wasn't something to revel in.

"Tell me about him," he said gruffly, positioning himself against the sofa's arm. "I barely know a thing about him at all. I only know that he was psychopathic, violent alien prince. But you, you've known him for thousands and thousands of years."

Sif offered him a terse little smile, before looking away as if ashamed. Tony knew from the brief interaction he'd seen between her and Loki, that their relationship wasn't terribly warm. Then again, Loki didn't seem to have any good relationship with anyone. Not even Thor who would have bent over backwards just to please him.

Loki had been, in so little words, difficult to deal with. Even at his best, he had been a colossal pain in the ass; and Tony had been on the receiving end of his attitude problem more than once, even up to the end.

"What would you like to know, Tony Stark?" She slowly asked, now fidgeting with her hands that were between her knees.

"When did you meet him?"

"It was a very long time ago; so long ago that I could not tell you precisely when. But we were still god-children; only several centuries old, no doubt." She hummed, seemingly transferred back into the past. "I am younger than both Thor and Loki; although Loki and I were only separated by few years.

"I became acquainted with Thor first, and grew to admire him immediately. To me Thor was, and still is, someone to be admired. He was valiant and strong; princely but robust. Whereas Loki was frequently withdrawn and impossible to speak to; for he was always overshadowed by Thor."

Tony found it difficult to imagine Loki as a child; in fact, it was becoming more and more difficult to even envision him at times. When he was piss-drunk, black-out drunk, his memories were frequently compromised and overrun. Sometimes to the point, where he couldn't discern what was reality and what was fiction.

Admittedly, there had been times when he thought Loki was only a figment of his imagination. Due to the logical part of him, which in no way believed in the existence of gods and magic and alien invasions; even if he knew all of those things coexisted in his world, it became harder and harder to believe them while utterly drunk oddly enough.

"As you have seen Thor and Loki are very dissimilar. I remember Thor as a boy with rambunctious laughter and a brilliant smile; whereas Loki was serious and studious. He was thin and slight, with such dazzling emerald eyes that I found myself studying them endlessly." Sif frowned, knotting her hands together tightly. "But as he grew, Loki became less reserved and more roguish. At first his mischiefs were innocent, but they too grew vicious."

"What do you mean?" Tony asked, although he had a vague idea of what Loki had been capable of.

"His pranks were oftentimes good natured, in hopes to cause laughter. But as he discovered his sorcery, they grew cruel. Loki would commit reprehensible actions; he had cut my hair, which once was as golden as Thor's, for some imagined slight he believed me guilty for." She furrowed her brow, although it seemed the years had lessened her anger considerably.

"So he was a troublemaker," he smiled slightly around the lip of his mug; but even that wasn't very sincere. "But I don't understand how he ended up like he did. I mean it is one thing to cut off your hair, but to try and take over an entire planet is on an entirely different level."

Sif caught his eye unexpectedly, and they shared some of the most uncomfortable eye contact in the history of the practice. And it was only then that Tony realized how unlike Loki, Sif truly was. Every illusion, want, and hope was shattered to little pieces in that moment.

His alcohol induced perception had been terribly wrong. The color of her eyes wasn't even comparable to Loki's; nor was her bone structure as sharp and pointed; in fact, there weren't any apparent similarities at all. What there had been was insurmountable hope; he had hoped so hard to find something to replace that gaping hole in his chest (arc reactor aside), that he'd convinced himself they could easily have been the same person.

He wanted that so much; and there was no way it could ever be. And if he looked away abruptly from Sif, and felt his throat tightened painfully, it wasn't because Loki was dead; nor was it because he genuinely, irreversibly loved the psychopath with every fiber of his being.

"I do not know why Loki changed," Sif muttered, almost on the verge of regretful that she hadn't had the answer. "Thor remained mum about the finer details; which is unusual for him; since he tells us most things without any hesitation."

"Must have been major then,"

"Even while merry on spirits and ale, Thor would not tell us,"

"Well, tell me something else then. Tell me about your friend and Loki; you know prince charming with his stupidly dashing looks."

"Fandral the Dashing," Sif supplied grimly, again toying with her hands. "I do not know why you'd be interested in that. But I shall tell you what I know nonetheless; because Fandral, unlike Thor, has a loose tongue while drunk."

Oddly enough Tony wanted to know everything that he could about Loki. Every ugly, scarred detail was something that at least would make Loki seem more alive to him than he had been for weeks now. And well, he still was in denial about the rest of the situation; to the point where he was just going to ignore it until it went away.

He figured a new breed of super-villain would be uncovered by SHIELD very soon, and Sif's whole end of the world spiel would be discredited. Not to mention that stupid flicker of hopefulness that appeared in that split-second, when he actually thought of the possibility of the god of mischief being alive.

"Fandral has a reputation for his wooing of maidens," Sif began once more, jarring him into reality. "It's rather despicable how many of the court he had bedded for sport and for story alike. But his conquests were not regulated only to Asgard, but also other realms; if only to boast in the pub for all to hear.

"It was only several centuries prior, that he suddenly decided he needed to bed royalty. And he was against becoming Thor's maiden for the evening; so he set his sights upon Loki instead."

"I'm sure Loki was honored,"

"Loki was wise to his plans very early on. I believe he only played the role of ignorance, just to see the fool flounder in his attempts to woo him into bed. And Fandral made quite a fool of himself, indeed.

"He went on unnecessary quests of valor, if only to bring Loki trinkets of his affection; to which he gave away on a whim. I am proud to say, I am in possession of an amulet from Alfheim that Fandral spent over a fortnight to retrieve from the light elves." She smiled. "But soon Fandral realized that his attempts to woo Loki were ineffective, if not entirely dishonorable; and it was only when he confronted Loki, did he end his suffering temporarily."

"What a dick," Tony almost laughed, since it was a very Loki-like thing to do.

"May it have been intentional or not, Fandral soon had fallen under Loki's spell. And in turn, Loki wounded Fandral severely in both pride and body. For Loki disarmed our party during a hunt, which led to Fandral becoming injured by a feral boar; and if only to make the matter worse, he declared that he was in love with the goddess Lady Sigyn."

Tony recognized the name, recalling in a moment of honesty that Loki mentioned being in love with said goddess. He also remembered that Sigyn had married someone else; which in a way served Loki right, because even though Tony hadn't any respect for Fandral; he could recognize how fucked up that was to do to the guy.

"As to be expected, Fandral despaired and soon became enthralled with rage. And he and Loki collided in several physical altercations; which were immediately separated by Thor, whom remained utterly ignorant to the tryst."

"The big guy was that dense?"

"They did not flaunt their tryst about; although I was aware of it, as was Hogun and Volstagg. But none of us were willing to broach such explosive territory with Thor; we could only foresee unpleasantness for both Fandral and Loki if it was discovered." She sniffed, finally turning her gaze onto him. "Suffice to say, Fandral has lingering emotions still; but much of them are negative in nature. Although I believed he was particularly relieved to find Loki in one piece, once we saved him. It was only when he discovered your feelings for him, that he became positively enthralled with anger again."

Even though he shouldn't have found pleasure in that knowledge, it was hard for Tony not to grin. It was strangely rewarding to know a god was jealous of him, over something as fickle as securing Loki's fleeting interest.

Just as a trademark Stark quip was about to roll off the tip of his tongue about his superiority, Jarvis's voice overrode him instead with an apology; which was followed quickly by his AI displaying a blank screen above the coffee table.

_"Sir, you have an emergency call from Director Fury of SHIELD," _Jarvis drawled. _"He said it was imperative that he speak to you."_

"Son of a bitch," he erupted with annoyance, and suddenly very frightened by what Fury had to say to him; after all, they had only been away from SHIELD headquarters for no more than four whole hours. "Did he say exactly what he wanted?"

_"He only said that it was an emergency,"_

"Bring him up then," he said with exasperation, which only grew once the screen flickered on with Fury's likeness.

"Stark," Fury greeted unhappily.

"At your beck and call, apparently,"

"Even though it pains me to say it, and trust me I feel physical discomfort over it, we need your help."

"You need my help?" Tony repeated, before rising to his feet so he could be seen fully by Fury. "I thought I was being kept on the back burner, you know a clause in my punishment."

Fury appeared to be posed between anger and desperation; if he had a choice, Tony was sure that he would hang-up right then and there. But it was apparent that the situation was an emergency; after all, Fury was setting his pride aside to make the call in the first place instead of having Coulson or Hill do it for him.

"Well, I'm making an exception," Fury returned. "We have a problem; Doctor Doom has been spotted in Moscow, which has been completely destroyed. So we can only draw to the conclusion that he has been the one behind these attacks; but just to exacerbate the problem even more, he has an accomplice who is currently helping him decimate the area even more so than it is already."

"Cap, Romanoff, and Barton can't handle it themselves?"

"Listen, this accomplice is no joke. So I suggest you get your ass suited up, and do some good; before I personally go over there myself and jam your ass into the suit for you. Got it, Iron Man?"

"You are so lucky I'm sober right now, Nick," he glowered, before turning his eyes onto Sif. "Tell Romanoff to fly her quinjet over and pick up the goddess of war. She's been itching for a fight, and I've been itching to get her out about and socializing."

Rather than wait for Fury to respond, he pressed the disconnect button on the screen. He then quickly downed the rest of his coffee, before he started towards the workshop; but not before yelling over his shoulder at Sif, who looked strangely confused by the entire exchange.

"Get into your battle gear, baby. We're going to war."


	14. Chapter Thirteen :: Too Far Gone

**The Art of War**

Chapter Thirteen

(Too Far Gone)

* * *

**Author's Note: **First and foremost, I just wanted to wish everyone a Happy New Year! And admittedly this was an emotionally draining chapter to write; I don't know if I'm fond of it either, but then again I could sit here forever and probably not get it right. So here it is and I hope you enjoy it; as always reviews are always welcomed and appreciated. And I suppose I should apologize too.

I highly recommend you listen to "Too Far Gone" by Tiamat while reading this chapter; I think it really sets the mood lyrically and musically.

* * *

_I've been through all of this a million times before_

_Seems all my demons got me knocking on hell's door_

_I know it's too late to regret what I have done_

_But I still love you like the morning loves the sun_

**"Too Far Gone" **- Tiamat

* * *

The silence was eerie, eerier than the absolute nothingness that spanned for hundreds, if not thousands, of miles. Tony had been to Moscow only three times; but he could recall how beautiful the place had been, despite it being the seventh level of hell due to how cold it was.

The streets had been heavily populated then, the roads even more so; even though he was mostly drunk on the best vodka in the world for most of his visits, he had been able to appreciate the city and the architecture that spanned from Saint Basil's Cathedral to the Triumphal Arch.

But now it was a soot-covered graveyard; it didn't even resemble a city at all. Snow had covered much of the destruction that had transpired, almost in a futile attempt to cleanse (or maybe just hide) the earth from what Doom had done.

No one had even believed that Doom was capable of mass destruction on this scale. Certainly, they knew he could demolish Rodeo Drive or even downtown Los Angeles; but it never appeared to be in his skill set to annihilate several major cities within days.

Hell, Tony had assumed the guy was an idiot, despite his file saying he was one of the smartest people on the planet. Then again, Tony was _the_ smartest person on the planet, which would technically make Doom stupid regardless of his IQ.

He just hadn't prepared himself for this. After all, he had spent the better half of two months at the bottom of a bottle, oblivious to the happenings of the world. Even when Sif had attempted to pull him back into reality, he had firmly planted his feet in an ocean of pure, undiluted alcohol. Honestly, it was a miracle really that he hadn't gone through his medicine cabinet just to will the hurt away.

Guilt however overrode his own personal problems now; regardless of not having authorization to put on the suit until several hours ago, Tony figured he could have at least done something to help. Maybe he could have even prevented the whole city of Moscow from being destroyed so entirely.

He could have done something, because really what couldn't the Stark name do? And honestly when did Tony listen to anyone but himself? If he only been of lucid mind, maybe he could have joined the fray and prevented Doom from causing so much unnecessary damage; from killing so many innocent people.

Fueled by his trademark guilt and self-loathing, Tony slowly began to descend and look for an appropriate place to begin his search for Doom; although it shouldn't be that hard to find an oversized, cape wearing super-villain in the mangled remnants of Moscow.

"Jarvis coordinates," he requested as he continued downwards; albeit he didn't expect much in the way of information, since the place had been blown to hell and back.

As he expected, Jarvis pulled up very few detailed coordinates; although he was kind enough to estimate the quinjet's arrival, approximately eighteen minutes, and send word of his location so that they could touch down in the general vicinity.

Despite already knowing protocol while on missions, Tony chose to move out without the rest of the team. Cap would be inevitably miffed, no doubt with a scolding on the tip of his tongue about safety and strategy; or whatever else a super soldier with a stick up his ass would say. But that hardly deterred him from his plan.

Once he landed, sending snow flurries upward in something akin to a snow-globe, Tony studied his surroundings closely. There was very little to see; Doom didn't leave any clues behind nor did his mysterious cohort that seemed to have put Fury completely on edge. In fact, Tony was privy to believe that both had left sometime between their activities coming to SHIELD's attention, and the long trip it took to get to Moscow in the first place.

But he couldn't eliminate the possibility that they might still be close-by; not after he traveled that long and it wasn't like he came for the scenic view either. In the very least, he should search the immediate area; so Tony called on Jarvis again, if only to see if any body heat registered as they flew overhead.

Not surprisingly it was in the negative; Moscow was, or had been, an extraordinarily big city. Doom could be anywhere in the rubble; maybe even bidding his time until he could strike down the whole team with his highly advanced sorcery. Because really there was no way those pathetic doombots could have been the cause behind this; Tony figured Doom's forte was in the dark arts instead.

"Well, there's no point on walking," he muttered absentmindedly, before kicking on his repulsors and lifting off the ground again. "Let's scan a twenty mile radius, you know until the party poopers get here."

"_Highly unadvisable sir; Captain Rogers would like you to remain in place until the quinjet's arrival." _Jarvis chimed in as expected.

"Too bad; I'm not going to stand around freezing my balls off until he gives us the go ahead to search. So I'll take a victory lap and be back before he knows it." Tony propelled himself forward, and began to scan the debris for anything living.

Of course nothing had survived; everything had been decimated, blown to smithereens. Nondescript, burned-out buildings, or what had been buildings, dotted the landscape; but those too didn't unearth anything of importance. Doom and his accomplice weren't hiding anywhere nearby; which was becoming progressively frustrating to Tony, since there was absolutely nothing he could do.

Everyone was already dead; people, animals, plants, everything was gone. Guilt struck him for the umpteenth time since his arrival, and he had to swallow down the urge to become violent. He knew causing further damage to an already demolished city wouldn't be in any way helpful; no less, it would hardly make him feel better.

What had been done had been done. Doom had destroyed Hong Kong, Shanghai, Taipei, and now Moscow; and he might very well follow suit with Tokyo or Seoul or even Kiev. The only thing Tony could do was prevent those cities and those people from falling under the super-villain's wrath; but nothing could be done in this case, even if it burned his ass.

Sometime amid his fruitless search and his guilt-addled thoughts, Jarvis jarred him back into reality. The quinjet had landed and Cap was already in an uproar that he wasn't there to greet them with open arms, which Tony already predicted long before he went on his run; and well, he just couldn't bring himself to care about it.

"Tell the troops I'm circling back," he sighed, while heading back to where he started; and maybe he took his time on his return, since he wasn't exactly thrilled to be scolded by Captain Red White, and Blue.

The quinjet eventually appeared in front him, and each member of the team was already meandering about waiting for his return. Sif stood away from the group, studying the destruction with cool calculation and in no way surprised by it either. Because really what could surprise a thousand year old goddess nowadays, aside from declaring it was the apocalypse and her childhood friend was the harbinger?

Tony landed beside his new buddy, who only spared him a fleeting glimpse; but he wasn't so lucky when it came to the other three. Cap strode over towards him, shield on his arm and ready to serve American justice to any baddie in his way; and Tony was going to be on the receiving end of it very soon.

"Iron Man, what on earth were you thinking?" Cap opened with, as his mouth tightened into a thin line. "I specifically told you to stay in position until we touched down."

"Well, I could have done that or I could have searched the twenty mile perimeter like I did, and tell you for a fact that Doom isn't anywhere near here. So unless you want to split up and walk through a fucking Siberian winter, I suggest we come up with a better plan of attack." He returned, although the fight he normally would have had was non-existent.

Now that he was permanently affixed with guilt, Tony found it difficult to be an obnoxious bastard to Cap; even though he felt justified in it nonetheless, particularly with that jab Cap made about his dear 'ol dad at the benefit gala.

"SHIELD has sophisticated technology; you aren't the only one, Stark," Romanoff supplied, unaffected by the snow flurries; she was, or had been, Russian after all. "We were circling the area overhead and for several moments I'm sure we hit on a heat signature. And since we already had your coordinates, we were able to eliminate you as the source."

"Where exactly did you see it, if you don't mind me asking; or is that something you can't tell a traitor?" Tony couldn't hide the bitterness in his voice, which felt even more justified by the nasty look Barton sent his way.

"Westward, mayhap seven, no eight miles away," Sif suddenly spoke, before gracefully moving into the direction that she mentioned. "Your technology isn't as sound as intuition, I'm afraid. And magic is something palpable in the air."

Romanoff looked cross for a split-second, which pretty much seemed to sum up her attitude towards Sif in general. But Cap and Barton had the good grace not to react, since they seemed to be holding all their pent-up dislike for Tony which was perfectly fine and dandy.

"I think our best bet is to rely on the technology," Cap returned. "The heat signature which cropped up on our radar was southward, about three and a half miles away. There's a fairly large structure in that direction, and it is possible Doom has taken refuge in there until the snow let's up."

"I am not of your party," Sif said sharply, which Tony had to admire. "Therefore, I shall follow my intuition and head westward instead."

As receptive as Romanoff had been to Sif, Cap finally revealed his true feelings as well, and they weren't the warm and fuzzy type either. But being the wholesome, apple pie sort of guy, he didn't vocalize any of his dislike; rather he seemed to be in the midst of thinking or maybe even weighing the pros and cons of letting Sif separate from the group.

"Ma'am, I can't let you go on your own; we don't know exactly what's out there." Cap said unhappily. "Barton, Romanoff head westward with Lady Sif. Iron Man, you're with me; we'll go southward."

"Maybe I should go with my pal here," Tony suggested.

"No, I don't think so. Someone has to keep an eye on you." Cap returned, before turning to Romanoff and Barton. "If you find something, let us know immediately."

Neither Romanoff nor Barton looked thrilled with the arrangement, but they were good little assassins and remained mum beyond the affirmative to Cap's previous statement. Sif was already moving away from the group, walking with determined steps through the snow that was already accumulating rapidly on the ground.

Cap gave assassins one and two a sharp nod, which sent them after the warrior goddess; and left him and Tony alone. They didn't exchange any words, but instead started southward towards a building Tony, undoubtedly, and come across during his initial sweep.

Tony trailed Cap, hovering above the ground, and barely taking stock of the destruction anymore. His mind wandered over a number of things, most of which didn't necessarily make him feel any better about himself or anything else for that matter.

At least while consumed with self-deprecation, the four mile journey went by much faster. Cap resigned himself to silence too, which was more than okay with him. Because any interaction between the two of them was bound for a whole lot of unpleasantness; hell, Tony was surprised Cap hadn't already gone a rant about Sif's inclusion in the mission, or even broached the topic of the past few months.

Instead Cap only focused on the task at hand, and looked only too grateful that they made it to the skeletal remains of the building he had previously mentioned. It was nothing more than charred wood, which groaned underneath the snowfall; bits of concrete littered the inside alongside soot and ash, but there wasn't any sign of Doom.

"What do we have here? A whole lot of nothing from what I can see; not even a heat signature to stave away the cold," Tony muttered, moving further into the building's cover; although there was very little to be had.

"But the infrared camera showed something here," Cap returned, which was a little impressive merely because he knew the word infrared to begin with.

"Maybe we should have followed Lady Bloodhound after all,"

"Because that would have been strategically sound; Doom could have easily been here instead."

"Yes, he could have been but he isn't-"

_"Guys, we have a problem," _Barton's voice chimed in via the communication system.

Both Tony and Cap tensed, although there weren't any audible sounds that would point to a hostile attack. Or at least Barton could have taken cover, before the inevitable blow up with Doom and his accomplice. Barton was known for taking refuge on higher ground, since he was an archer after all.

"What's the problem, Barton?" Cap asked visibly tense.

Barton didn't answer; in fact there was a howl of static that overrode the system, causing Tony to flinch. But the static soon subsided by what could only be described as Barton on the move, and uttering an expletive under his breath.

Several more moments passed without any clear communication from Barton, which was obviously putting Cap on edge. He began to pace in short strides, only pausing when the static revived itself, and Barton's voice choked out something indiscernible.

"Holy shit, holy shit," Barton stammered out, his breathing ragged and irregular. "That did not just happen, that didn't just happen!"

Romanoff's voice was audible on Barton's end, but she hadn't chosen to communicate directly with them. Her voice was hushed but in control, compared to Barton's that was now sprouting out expletives of all kinds. More rustling ensued, as if their team was running away from the threat; whatever it might be.

"Barton, speak to me," Cap demanded, poised to valiantly save the day if he must.

"Oh hell no," Tony blurted out, as a screen suddenly flashed in front of his eyes. "Cap, we have our own problem! No time to save them!"

The words barely left Tony's mouth, before several doombots rushed towards them. Cap was quick on the upswing and managed to lift his shield right before one of the doombots descended on him. Tony quickly shot half a dozen repulsor rays at the fleet of six, although it did little to set them off course. Cap again swung his shield but this time on the offensive, which sent one of the doombots careening into the half-wall of the building.

But none of their attacks could stave off the inevitable; the doombots dove in for hand-to-hand combat. Tony was blessed with two, both of which managed to strike him hard enough to send him flying as gracelessly as Cap sent that doombot into the wall. Except there was nothing to stop his flight, aside from a pile rubble several yards away; and boy when he hit it, was he glad that the suit took much of the impact.

He groaned, allowing himself to crumble to the ground; but that was as long as a reprieve he'd gotten, before the doombots were charging for him again. Quickly he raised both his hands, and used his repulsor rays again; and still they did little to no damage to the bastards, aside from deterring them for half a second.

"No more mister nice guy," Tony huffed, before initializing his treasure trove of smart missiles. "Jarvis let's get rid of these bastards, before the real Doom can get away."

_"My thoughts exactly, sir," _Jarvis returned.

The compartments on the shoulders of his armor slid open, before launching several small but highly effective missiles at the approaching doombots. They hit their intended targets without any problem, and the impact was a sight to behold. The missiles exploded, consuming the doombots in a fireball and leveling them off into bits of shrapnel and smoldering wires.

Once he was certain they weren't about to get up again, Tony launched himself off the ground and flew the short distance to where Cap was still fighting off his own pair of the bots. One of them lay immobile in the rubble; but the other two were making Cap into a bona fide punching bag.

Cap's hood had been ripped off, and he was already sporting a shiner; albeit he was still swinging his shield like it was no tomorrow. Tony sped up, running into the closest bot, which should have potentially been the end of it. But his luck was just shit, and the bot clung to him, effectively anchoring him down and preventing him from launching farther into the air.

_"Oh my fucking god, his head, his head; he doesn't have a head!" _Barton's voice howled into his ear without warning, distracting him enough for the doombot to manhandle him to the ground with its incredible strength.

Tony hit the ground hard and this time he felt it. The air was knocked out of his lungs, and he was hardly prepared for the punch that the doombot landed to the side of his helmet. The sound of metal against metal made his ears ring, temporarily drowning out Barton's tirade which was hardly computing to Tony anyway.

Another hit from the doombot shook Tony out of his disorientation; mostly because he felt the helmet give way and dent inward from the impact. He lifted his arm, staving off another hit to the head, and shot the bot in the face with his repulsor ray; if only to get him off of him, before he could set off the big fireworks.

Luckily that sent the bot careening a few yards away, far enough away for Tony to stagger to his feet, and launch another series of smart missiles towards the bastard. And he never felt as patriotic as he did while watching the doombot go up in flames; not even while standing to Cap himself if he had a bald eagle on his shoulder, while waving the American flag in the middle of Yankee stadium.

_"Iron Man, do you copy?" _Cap's labored breathing hummed in his ear; since Barton's voice had gone back into a cacophony of static.

"Yeah, I read you loud and clear,"

_"I'm heading your way. The threat has been neutralized on my end." _

"Mine too," he returned. "I'm taking off the helmet, over."

Tony didn't wait for a response, before wrenching the helmet off. But he soon regretted it, once he got a face full of Russian wind. He blinked a couple of times, if only to prevent his eyes from drying out by the cool air; which reminded him why he'd only been to Moscow three times before.

It didn't take very long for Cap to find him; he looked like he'd gotten into a bar brawl, although that didn't slow him down at all. He walked easily through the growing snow, despite his breathing being labored and still unsteady.

"We need to find Barton," he provided, once he approached Tony. "I didn't get half of what he said, beyond some excited babble."

"It was something about a head," Tony sniffed, contemplating if he should put the helmet back on or not. "Someone didn't have a head."

"We'll talk semantics later,"

"Aye, aye, captain," he saluted him obnoxiously, only for Cap to press his hand to his ear with a perplexed expression on his face.

"Barton, I don't know what you mean," Cap inserted after several moments. "Where are you?"

Tony squinted against the wind, shooting Cap a questioning look, which was met with an equally confused one. Barton hadn't been making any sense from the bits and pieces he had heard; and it was clear that he still wasn't at this point. Although Cap was kind of enough to keep talking to him, as if he was were a five year old who was trying to explain one of his favorite cartoons.

The conversation went back and forth for a solid two minutes, before Tony had had enough of it. His face already felt like it might freeze off entirely, and the more time they wasted on trying to decipher what Barton was saying, was time wasted on actually locating Doom.

Signaling at Cap to move out, he made a beeline for several piles of concrete and cement, which dwarfed him by at least two or three feet. He again contemplated putting on his helmet, so he could communicate with Jarvis and check up on the infrared scanners; but fitting his head back into the dented helmet would be a hell of a lot of work, not to mention painful.

An alarmed noise, undoubtedly Cap, suddenly pierced the air; it was soon followed by the heavy impact of something hitting what could only be Cap's shield. Tony whipped around, only to catch Cap stagger backwards from the blow, and look around wildly for whatever struck it.

"The hell," Tony scoffed, walking back towards Cap and just when he discovered whatever it was that had been thrown at him.

"Stark, Stark come quick,"

"I'm coming, I'm coming," he yelled back, before saddling up beside him very soon thereafter. "What is it?"

Cap didn't respond; he really didn't need to. Blood covered snow trailed towards a head, but not just some random head but Doom's. The mask and the hood were still intact, albeit it was clearly a human head since the doombots didn't bleed, and blood was leaking copiously from where the head was ripped from its respective neck.

Tony gaped at the head, before toeing at it with his boot. It rolled slightly still dribbling blood, and he couldn't help but look to Cap for some sort of guidance. After all, Cap had been in war and probably saw shit like this on a daily basis; but even he could only stare at what was left of one of their many enemies.

"Guess Barton was making sense after all," he offered humorlessly.

Cap shot him a lethal look, which was bound to lead to a verbal altercation, had it not been for the sound of footfall behind them. Both of them whipped around, only to be faced with dark cloaked figure, the same that Sif had shown Tony from that amateur video. But this time there wasn't any shadows to hide the aforementioned figure, and definitely nothing to obscure their identity either.

It was in that moment, Tony swore his heart stopped. His eyes widened, as if to drink in every line of that body covered in skin-tight leather and the cape that bellowed behind it like they were in a fantasy novel where dragons ruled, and dwarves went on adventures looking for their stolen gold.

Loki moved like a predator towards its prey; blood spotted his aquiline face, and his gloved hands were dripping with it. He didn't smile nor did he speak; he only traversed the distance between them until he was only a stone's throw away.

His gaze moved leisurely onto Doom's head, lingering for only a moment or two, before it swept onto Cap whose face had gone deathly white. Smoothly Loki moved again, inches away from Tony, close enough to smell and to touch and to kiss; close enough to be held in Tony's arms, who'd never let go of him again.

But he couldn't move; he couldn't do anything, and before he knew it, Loki had walked past him in favor for Cap. He threw a long arm around Cap's shoulders, pulling him close almost into an embrace, before pressing his lips against the shell of his ear.

"Darkness has fallen upon your realm," Loki murmured darkly and beautifully, in a way that made Tony's whole body ache. "And I shall illuminate it once more; I will be your only salvation. For I will bring you fire, I will light your realm, and I will watch it burn."

The strangest and most malicious grin twisted on Loki's lips, before the sudden roar of a fire burst into life around his feet, and slowly licked up his body until he was no more. And it was only then that Tony noticed the helmet wasn't in his hand anymore, and he had fallen to his knees.

Everything felt unexpectedly surreal; the snow that went halfway to his thighs, Doom's head that was only a few feet away, and even Cap who was stricken by God knows what. Before Tony could really understand what was happening, for any sort of sound analysis could happen in his lightning fast brain, something snapped inside of him.

A terrible noise shook his entire body, a scream that was so grotesque and inhuman; he swore it couldn't have come from him at all. And yet it kept pouring out of his mouth like a siren's song, terrifying and hypnotizing; and he couldn't stop it. It wouldn't stop.

His gauntlet-covered hands grabbed either side of his head, in a futile attempt to keep a hold of himself; but nothing helped, nothing would ever help. His vision suddenly wavered then blurred, and he knew he was sobbing; sobbing so hysterically that he couldn't even breathe anymore. He couldn't hear anymore; couldn't think anymore; couldn't even feel anymore. All he could do was fall deeper and deeper into a pit of despair, before everything went black.


	15. Chapter Fourteen :: Gravity

**The Art of War**

Chapter Fourteen

(Gravity)

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**Author's Note: **So this is a chapter I am not happy about; it got away from me which happens fairly often. But at least, this will set-up the next chapter, which is crucial to the storyline in general. So I'll just set this down and hope you enjoy it nonetheless.

This chapter is named after "Gravity" by A Perfect Circle.

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_I am surrendering to gravity and the unknown_

_Catch me heal me lift me back up to the sun_

_I choose to live_

**"Gravity" **- A Perfect Circle

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There were very few things Sif didn't excel in once she set her mind to them. After all, she could wield any weapon within her grasp, and level a battlefield as competently as any other warrior could. She had proven herself an asset in combat, and shamed the naysayers whom scoffed at her desire to pick up a sword in the first place.

But she had to say, despite her many abilities and strengths, _this_ was one of her greatest weaknesses. Fandral frequently jested that her womanly ability to comfort was nonexistent; that even Volstagg was more compassionate and loving in comparison. And truth to be, he wasn't very far off the mark in that respect.

She was baffled by what to do in means of comfort, although her current response seemed to be sufficient enough. The sobs that had overcome Stark had quieted after so long, replaced by heavy and ragged breathing. He had only asked for her to stay, and she couldn't deny him despite her better judgment.

It felt far too intimate for Sif to lie on her side, facing Stark's back; they were only an arm's length away from one another, which broached any common decency. Unless, of course, they were on a campaign and had to nestle against one another for body heat; which they certainly did not need to do now.

Her closeness, for whatever reason, staved Stark's incessant, heartbroken sobs. Once he had come to in the quinjet (as Sif heard them refer to it), Stark had been consumed with embarrassment, shame, and tried to hide his emotions to the best of his ability. But even his best was not enough to will away his tears; and Sif, in a panic since she considered him a comrade compared to the others, shielded him from their judgmental looks, and even allowed Stark to bury his face into her back, and wet her leathers with his grief.

Regardless of the fact that Stark had discarded her theory of what was to come; she didn't begrudge him of anything. It gave her no pleasure to know that she was right; especially because it meant one thing and one thing only – she would have to kill Loki.

The mortals had been ill-equipped to fight Loki during his invasion; they were equally unprepared once Loki fell to Midgard again. Therefore they simply could not handle what Loki had become; and only she was familiar with Loki's skills and abilities; she was the only one who could find his weaknesses and exploit them. For she had been able to do so several times in the past; and if she were to die defending Midgard, then she would be welcomed into Valhalla with open arms.

"Still there," Stark suddenly spoke up in a gravelly and broken manner; which did odd things to her.

"Aye," she said in return.

"Didn't think you would stay," Stark shifted, before reluctantly rolling onto his other side for they were facing one another.

Stark's eyes were glassy and red, whilst the area around them was swollen. His hair was mussed and unkempt, and he looked both much older and tired than he had while intoxicated. Sif had oftentimes seen such weariness before and frequently on the faces of men who had fought too many battles, lost far too many loved ones, and were waiting for death.

"I mean not even my so-called friends would stay," he crossed his arms, directing his gaze elsewhere. "We were a team, you know. A fucked up, dysfunctional team, but a team nonetheless. And we can't even, they can't even…"

"Comrades can be fleeting," Sif murmured, reaching forward to lay her hand against his forearm. "Comrades are different from brethren, brothers in arms."

"Extraordinary people in extraordinary Halloween costumes," Stark deadpanned, before looking to her again. "You were right about everything."

They stared at one another for what felt like a small eternity; it was only when a tear escaped Stark's eye that he looked away, and brushed it harshly away with one of his knuckles. He was a broken man and there was no way that Sif could have abandoned him now.

Methodically Sif moved closer, so close in fact that their breaths could mingle, and she could smell the undertones of sandalwood on his skin. He looked momentarily alarmed by their sudden closeness, but he didn't move away nor did she for that matter.

"I vow to you Tony Stark, this will not be your burden," she said, squeezing his forearm. "I shall be the one who rights this. And you shall save all your hurt, your animosity for me."

Stark appeared to be in a state of shock. Maybe he didn't understand what she meant, or maybe he caught on far faster than any other mortal would have. Either way, words seemed to have escaped him entirely and left him speechless; he could only stare at her, and she met his gaze point for point.

Very slowly he tried to sit up, overwhelmed by silent tears that slid down his cheeks. She didn't know what could possibly be plaguing his mind now; but she suspected that she really didn't want to know either.

"You don't understand," he croaked, again swiping his knuckles across his eyes. "No one can really understand."

"Tell me then," she challenged, while sitting up as well.

"Everyone's so worried about the world ending, you know. Now even SHIELD's making a huge fucking stink about it. But I don't care; it doesn't matter to me at all." Stark closed his eyes. "Because my world is already over,"

A pained and ragged sob erupted from Stark, which inspired Sif to act accordingly. While she wasn't very good at comforting, and would never surpass Volstagg in that respect, she still wanted to ease Stark's pain to the best of her abilities. She lurched forward, wrapping her arms around him, cradling the back of his head with one hand, while the other held onto the fabric of his tee-shirt.

Another series of sobs shook his body, alongside shamed words about his own weakness and stupidity. But Sif paid them no heed and held him steadfast against her body, willing for his anguish to pass again.

"Now you listen to me, Tony Stark," she demanded above his wails. "You shall prosper to a fine old age, and you shall experience riches and loves that a lesser man could not. And you shall tell your tales of valor to your grandchildren and great-grandchildren, until they pass them onward to others and others; and the name man of iron becomes legend amid your realm."

"Stop," he moaned, burying his face into her bosom, and clinging to her leathers as if he would drown otherwise. "Just stop,"

"I shall not! You will save all your ill-content for me; you will not point it towards yourself, towards your comrades, or even Loki." She grit out, holding him tighter. "I will gladly take all your hatred for myself!"

His anguished noises grew an octave louder, despite being buried against her; and they remained powerful and all-consuming for a very long time. But she held him together, unwilling to let a single piece of him fall to the wayside.

Soon Stark could only muster out heavy breaths and dry coughs; the tension of his body melted away into compliancy, as if he couldn't take anymore. The enormity of his grief couldn't be held up by him alone; and maybe he would allow her to help.

"Are you serious?" Stark managed to say weakly.

"Mark my word, you will have no part in it," she urged his head up, so she could look him in the eyes. "I am the only one who can stop Loki within your realm."

Several different emotions fleeted across Stark's face, before reluctant acceptance superseded them all. Or maybe it was simply a sign that he'd given up all hope; due to the fact, Loki was proven to be the harbinger and there was nothing that could reverse that.

Sif hadn't caught sight of Loki like the others. Once she had separated from Stark and the one called Rogers, she changed her direction several times; and she wasn't surprised to find that she had lost the other two mortals somewhere amid the debris.

Within a matter of minutes, the mortals had caught sight of Loki in the midst of mutilating the sorcerer Doom; before Loki disappeared elsewhere, which led to his unfortunate meeting with Stark. Or lack thereof; Stark had mentioned it amid his disjointed ramblings, how Loki had effectively ignored him altogether; which was only exacerbated by hearing that the other two mortals had a previous run-in with Loki, and both had been spoken to, threatened really; but spoken to nonetheless.

"Maybe I don't want anyone to stop him," Stark admitted very quietly.

"Don't speak such nonsense," she raked her fingers through his hair, which seemed to agree with him. "That is not the Loki you know. Mayhap I did not see him, but rest assured the magic that I sensed did not feel like Loki's at all."

"Looked like him to me, except that he made a beeline to the dominatrix depot," he pulled away, sitting up but visibly sagging nonetheless. "Sounded like him too; same Shakespearean bullshit, even the same smell. Whatever that is,"

"He is not the Loki of old, Tony Stark,"

"Or maybe this was an elaborate way of dumping me," he shot her a self-deprecating smile, which quickly dissipated.

Before she could scold him for making light of the situation, although she knew it was his attempt to save face, a knock echoed off the walls. Without waiting for permission to come in, the one named Rogers appeared behind the door looking both rigid and out of place.

Stark barely paid him any attention, flopping unceremoniously back onto the bed. The many hours of uncontained emotion were taking its toll, and he appeared to be in no mood to deal with Rogers. But that didn't stop Rogers from clearing his throat, and easily grabbing the attention of the room.

"Lady Sif, ma'am," Rogers addressed her, clearly uncomfortable. "Do you mind if I have a word with you?"

"Certainly; I imagine it would do you well to sleep, Tony Stark," she eyed him, receiving a tired grunt in return.

Climbing off the bed, Sif crossed the room and towards the door; Rogers stepped aside to let her through the doorway, before he secured the door shut behind her. Without any explanation, Rogers led her to the first level of Stark's expansive home; although there really didn't need to be an explanation, once she saw the two other mortals in front of a screen with the Director of SHIELD on it.

The room was quiet, as if they had anticipated her arrival. Neither of the mortals whom showed a great dislike for her said anything as she approached; and she paid them no heed either, choosing instead to peer at the screen. The Director only offered her a nod, before letting out a huff of breath that he seemed to have been holding in.

Once Rogers also moved towards the screen, it seemed to have willed the Director into action. His eyes swept over their quartet, studying them closely, and finally letting out a strained _it's about time_.

"Director Fury wanted to have a word with you ma'am," Rogers explained, motioning towards the screen. "And since Stark deemed it necessary that you stay with him, Director Fury decided a conference call was in order."

"Well, now that we have determined your theory is actually correct, Lady Sif, we'll have to deal with it accordingly." Director Fury explained, leaning back in his seat. "Therefore, I wanted you to tell us everything you know about Loki. Miniscule or not; we need to know everything about this guy and what makes him tick."

Another screen superseded the one with Fury's likeness; this one was filled with the icy tundra that they had only returned from. Several unsavory words littered the background, which seemed to have come from the mortal who happened to be an archer.

The video was rather shaky but soon stilled, only to reveal a dark figure against the white of the snow. Loki's tall form was in the midst of pulling a struggling mortal behind him; albeit he seemed rather nonchalant about the matter, only halting to drop his captive to the ground, and unsheathing a sword, dwarf made and sharp.

The mortal, undoubtedly Doom, made a strangled noise but it was cut short. And that's when the archer began to babble incoherently for several long moments, before the screen went dark. Fury's image returned to the screen, and he glowered at them.

"Lady Sif, do you have any commentary on that?" Fury asked.

"Loki has never wielded a sword," she returned, somehow retaining her calm. "He had always been privy to daggers and knives, throwing knives, and magic. He had only picked up a sword while in training, and even then he was not gifted in it."

"He seemed pretty gifted to me," the archer said testily.

"That is why it is peculiar. Loki had always been disarmed by others; his form has never been very good. Fandral oftentimes attempted to teach him to no avail; merely because Loki did not like to be told what to do. He found it an insult of the highest order.

"Furthermore, within those brief glimpses I have seen of him through your technology; he looks much different than he had. And I had seen him rather recently."

"We saw him in person, that is Loki," the woman, Romanoff, motioned at the screen. "There wasn't anything different about him besides the fact his hair was a bit longer."

"Untrue," Sif insisted. "Sir, Jarvis have you captured that video? And if so will you still it upon Loki?"

_"I have, Lady Sif; and I shall do that immediately," _Jarvis responded, taking only a few moments to bring up the video and pause it on a full length image of Loki.

To a mortal's eyes, Loki appeared no differently than before; but Sif could see several changes right away. She studied his likeness for several moments, if only to be sure of what she saw was not distorted by the Midgardians' technology.

"He is taller," she motioned at the screen, already hearing a derisive snort from either the archer or his partner. "I have known Loki for centuries, so this will not go unnoticed to me. He looks about as tall as Thor, if not slightly taller.

"His face is different as well; Jarvis if you will zoom in, yes right there. As you can see, his features are sharper and his eyes are a different shade of green as well."

"His eyes were blue," the archer retorted.

"That was a side effect of the glow-stick of destiny," Stark suddenly appeared, holding a bottle of liquor in one hand. "I figured that out pretty early on. You know, after seeing Legolas's eyes here were the same creepy-ass color."

"Stark, what the hell do you want?" Fury demanded only to be waved off dismissively.

"Couldn't stand being excluded from the party; now catch me up, Lady Fine-ass what are we talking about?" Stark took a swig from the bottle, before collapsing into an overstuffed armchair. "You know aside, from talking about Barton's dreamy eyes."

Sif let out a long suffering sigh, knowing better than to question why Stark was up and about; no less carrying a bottle of liquor with him. She had learned very early on, it was better to allow some men their space when it came to their vices. Especially if trying to wretch it from their hands, would cause more harm than good; and Stark without his drink, inevitably would be worse off.

Without being asked to, Stark's computerized voice swiveled a smaller screen in front of him, displaying Loki's image. Stark was surprisingly composed about coming face-to-face with the image, and merely took another swig from the bottle.

"Okay, what am I looking at exactly?"

"That would be Loki," Rogers supplied.

"Really, Cap? I was under the impression Ziggy Stardust had a bastard child with Elvira all this time." Stark snapped with his trademark snark. "What I meant is why are we sitting here looking at him?"

"Apparently your new best friend here thinks the psychopath looks different," Barton offered with a shrug. "But he looks the same to me."

Before Stark could say anything else, Sif saddled up beside him, and pointed at the sharpness of Loki's nose. While it always had such a quality, the severity of it had increased; the contours of his face were also far more pointed, whereas his eyes were darker and a more menacing color of green.

Stark remained quiet, leaning forward to study Loki's likeness; he did so for a long time too, because Fury began to squawk in annoyance, and the other mortals began to squirm restlessly. Although Stark paid them no heed; he only acknowledged Sif and gave her look that was hard to discern.

"Sorry sister, but I don't see a difference," Stark uttered unconvincingly, before getting to his feet, and starting back towards the stairwell. "Once you guys are done dissecting the guy from head to toe, let me know what the plan of attack is. Iron Man is on duty and ready to kill a motherfucking, Antichrist and Norse god."

Sif gaped in stunned surprise at that declaration, as did everyone else for that matter. Before anyone could question Stark, he had already ascended the stairs once more still clutching the liquor bottle in his hand.


	16. Chapter Fifteen :: Monsters and Demons

**The Art of War**

Chapter Fifteen

(Monsters and Demons)

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**Author's Note: **This chapter came rather quickly and I must admit, it came off darker than I intended it to. But since I am a fan of such, I think it turned out rather well nonetheless. It might very well be my favorite chapter to date.

This chapter was named after the song "Monsters and Demons" by Diary of Dreams. If you would like this song (alongside the others that inspired the previous chapters), please let me know and I'll post a link to my Tumblr account which will have the link to the songs.

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Intuition was key to his purpose; his former intelligence invaluable to the destruction he gladly brought upon the lesser realms. There were many tears in space, much of which were undiscovered, perilous in nature and perfect tools for his impending destruction.

There was a method to his madness, after all. He had only chosen to strike the cities, or in the very least ones close-by, that had been on the other end of the tears. Many of the tears had been clustered together, and he'd gone through each accordingly and demolished whatever was within his path.

It was a perfectly precise plan, while also being utterly chaotic. No one could possibly track his movements without previous knowledge of the tears, and even so which tear he chose to use was a game of roulette. Case in point, how he had ended up on sandy beach with the roar of the ocean a short distance away.

Nightfall had already come, blanketing the beachside in darkness; the moon, half-crescent, illuminated very little. There were no sounds to be heard either; it appeared as if this tear was far removed from civilization, as had the one in that frosty tundra that he had recently destroyed.

He slowly moved through the sand, observing his surroundings with heightened awareness. After all, he had come close to an altercation with several mortals whom might very well have been allies to the creature he had beheaded. But he had chosen to take his leave, rather than strike under such uncertain circumstances. It would have proven unwise to initiate a fight, while his energy had been depleted, and rest beckoned him after the darkness surged so entirely against that creature.

So he had taken his leave, choosing only to return to Midgard once he felt appropriately rested. Albeit, he found himself keenly aware of the danger that those mortals had posed. The Widow and the Hawk had been amongst the group; the other, tall and light who wielded a shield also appeared to be rather strong. Whereas the other member, the other…

He paused unable to recollect who had been alongside the shield holder. While he was certain there was another person there, he could not conjure up their likeness. He furrowed his brow in thought, racking his mind for some memory of that other mortal, but it was to no avail.

Certainly it would be to his advantage if he could remember that other mortal; however, he reserved himself to believe it was a secondary concern. If that mortal did intend to strike alone, it would be an easy task to eliminate him; in fact, it would take very little effort to dispose of him at all.

Moving farther away from the tear, he pondered his next plan of attack. Of course, there would be a city and there would be mortals nearby; there were very little stretches of land that the mortals hadn't invaded, and there would always be things to burn. It was only a matter of seeking them out.

No sooner had he stepped into a patch of moonlight, did he feel a very hostile presence somewhere in the vicinity. The presence was unlike the many he had experienced within this realm; in fact, it had been sometime since he felt such an aged and vibrant presence. His lips quirked as he slid his hand underneath his cloak, unsheathing a throwing knife from his belt, and waited for the inevitable to ensue.

It took no longer than twenty seconds, perhaps less, before a figure shrouded in shadow leapt from a small rock formation close-by. Within a split-second, he sent the knife towards his intended target, only mildly impressed that he missed. He caught the knife as it boomeranged back to him, and gazed upon the Aesir before him.

The Aesir was positioned close to the ground, having landed in a crouch; an elongated spear was held in her hand, ready to strike if only the opportunity presented itself. She snarled at him like a feral animal, and even bared her teeth.

Painstakingly slow, he stepped away from her; his eyes never leaving hers, and for the briefest of moments he felt utterly delirious. Her face was known to him from the old times; her lips pulled into a glorious smile, tightened into an outraged sneer; he knew such emotions upon her face well. A fragment of him had always wanted to covet them, if only to spite _him_.

Once he found a distance that proved to be safe from any wayward attack; he studied her closely and the bitterness that encompassed her so wholly. She rose to her full height, her spear at the ready, and her stance defensive in a way that only a warrior would know. It was a stance he also knew very well; he had watched her before, thought of ways to disarm her in battle only out of merriment (or mischief) of course.

"Bringer," she uttered the word venomously, as they began to circle one another.

"Milady," he returned with a grin. "Have you've come for my head?"

"Oh yes, and I will have it,"

"Pray tell the name of my murderer,"

"I am the Lady Sif of Asgard. I am the goddess of war." She declared, which caused him to pause once more in their defensive dance.

The grin upon his lips dissipated, replaced with sudden wanton need; he felt something akin to delirium again, and he knew unequivocally that he desired her. She, a higher being like he, and her title, her very nature aligned with his. His purpose of mayhem, her nature of war, they were one.

His brief moment of weakness permitted her to cross the distance between them. She moved with precision and a swiftness that only rivaled his. She leapt and attempted to pierce him through the heart. But he quickly recovered his wits, and dodged the attack and distanced himself again.

The Lady Sif fell unceremoniously to the sand, but kept hold of her weapon nonetheless. She righted herself once more, before her hand delved into the pouch on her hip, and threw several small daggers at him all at once. They were no longer than an inch or two, and he blocked their flight with his still drawn knife.

Sparks flashed as the daggers met his blade, before they ricocheted outwards and into the sand. And just as quickly as she had attacked him beforehand, Lady Sif was upon him again. This time she swung her spear overhead, angling it in such a way that it caught his side but only shallowly.

The pain hardly registered to him or even the trickle of blood against his skin; albeit he found this was a blessing in disguise. As he had hesitated beforehand, she too drew to immobility, and allowed him to grab her by her fragile swan-like neck. A feral and cat-like sound expelled from her lips, as he held her in place, consumed, again, by the desire to covet her.

Her eyes were wide and spiteful, which only increased a tenfold as he tightened his hold upon her. She dropped her spear to the sand, tearing at his gloved hand with both of her own, willing him to let her go. But now that she was in his grasp, he was in no way interested on freeing her.

"Lady Sif," he cooed her name madly. "I believe you know my purpose like no other. You are of Aesir blood, after all."

"I will not allow you to wreak your havoc any longer," she spat out. "I shall have your head!"

"I'm afraid that your will is not my own," he clucked, whilst leaning inward to make eye contact. "Oh no, I have far more to do within this realm. And I have many, many plans for the others as well. Midgard is simply my reprieve; my entertainment, if you will."

Midgard, after all, was the weakest of the nine realms; but the Aesir would certainly take notice, and they would allow their own defenses to fall if only for a moment's notice. And once that had ensued, he would call upon the frost giants, and he would lead them to storm Asgard; while Hela allowed her army to run amok upon this realm unhindered.

He only had to bid his time a bit longer; but now he found his purpose had presented himself with something interesting indeed. Destruction, mayhem, complete and utter pandemonium coincided with war; for war was the cause of chaos, and this woman, this _goddess_, would serve him well.

"The nine realms were not made for your entertainment," she suddenly howled, jerking her body to and fro, only for him to tighten his grasp and force the fight out of her.

"I have great plans for your realm, Lady Sif," he said, bending his arm a fraction so he could step forward. "Rest assured I do not take your kind lightly."

She stared at him with sudden dread; it spread across her face, and drummed that desire deep within him again. Somewhere within those eyes, he could see her wild, unhindered need for war. He knew she craved for blood upon her hands, as he did too. She only suppressed it for civility's sake, if that; and yet he longed to unleash her full potential.

Lifting his hand which still held his throwing knife, he slowly dragged the flat-side of the blade across her cheek, along her jaw, and the fullness of her bottom lip. She remained perfectly still, panic superseded the dread she felt for Asgard; and it became a selfish fear, the desire for self-preservation.

He pressed the tip of the blade between her lips, mesmerized by the image; although he wasn't foolish enough to allow such imagery to distract him. After all, such a deadly creature as she would only make good use of his wandering mind; and it would do no good if he had to kill her.

"But every king does deserve a queen," he uttered harshly, before removing the blade from her lips; and he was almost delighted to see that a small droplet of blood had settled in between them. "And mayhem can only be coupled with war. Do you not agree?"

"War is self-contained chaos," she whispered, while her eyes hardened. "Chaos for the sake of chaos is not war. Chaos, mayhem, whatever you may call it, is self-indulgent and selfish; war has its purpose. War while not entirely justifiable still has a purpose, whether you agree with it or not."

"You justify war because that is who you are," he grinned, while sheathing his knife once more. "You encompass death, slaughter, genocide. You my dearest Lady Sif are mayhem personified; no matter if you believe otherwise, your master of war has harmed so many more than my mistress of chaos. And both chaos and war will be coupled together, become one overpowering entity that will see this world and the many others fall to ruin.

"You and I, Lady Sif, will rule as one. Whether you like it or not, you are my conspirator."

"You listen to me, bringer," she stuttered out, and he felt her whole body tremble violently. "My purpose is to stop you. And I will stop you; I will bring your reign to an end. Mark my words."

"Your words are only that – words," he bent his arm further, until he was almost flush against her. "You cannot deny fate. Fate has foretold of this coupling on the day of your birth; on the day of mine. And fate is an impatient shrew; it will not take no for an answer; nor will I for that matter."

Before she could protest any further, for he knew she would, he leaned inward and pressed his lips against the corner of her mouth. Her breath hitched and he knew without a shadow of a doubt, that she feared him utterly and completely. She, the goddess of war, feared him when she was worthy of being feared; and that too delighted him.

"Loki, you don't know what you speak of," she whispered, as he pressed another kiss to the corner of her mouth. "This is not you; I know this is not you. But you can wake up; you must wake up!"

That name again; it was like a plague on his person. No matter how he denied it, it would return with infinite force. It was upon every person's lips, as if he knew who possessed such a name; as if he were the one who belonged to such a pathetic, unmentionable legacy.

He pulled away from her, if only to stare at her. Her eyes were far wider than they had been only minutes beforehand, and her skin looked awfully pale from pure, undiluted terror. Her hands remained around his, which still was firmly enveloped around her neck; and he swore that he knew her far better than even his fleeting glimpses would have suggested. They had been allies before, this he was sure of.

Using his free hand, he tilted her head back, and found his memory lacking. Even if her likeness was so familiar, and their partnership an intuitive recollection; he simply could not dredge up anything more. And he really didn't want to; not when he felt himself growing intoxicated by her fear.

"My dearest Lady Sif, I am awake," he stated matter-of-factly, smiling. "But I am not who you speak of; I can only imagine you are dreadfully confused. Mayhap your previous fall has affected your head. However that is no matter to me, I intend to have you either way."

Her rebellious nature reawakened by his words, and she struggled like a feral cat. She kicked at the sand, aiming futilely for his legs; whilst her fingernails dug into the leather of his glove. Determination and desperation entwined and became one entity; and he reveled in the way that she struggled, screamed words in the old tongue that he somehow knew so very well.

Once the fight in her was weakened, he removed his hand from her neck, and instead quickly cradled her face. He pulled her to him and felt her vicious nails; miserable things really, drive back into his hands again.

"I am the goddess of war," she screamed, near hysterical with fear.

"Yes, yes of course you are! That is why I will have you!" He laughed whimsically. "Lady Sif, you will provide me with war, and I shall give you chaos. So much chaos and mayhem,"

"Loki, no," she screamed again, almost crumbling to her knees. "By the Norns, let me go!"

"Who is that that you speak of?" He asked, dipping his head until they were nose-to-nose. "For I know no one of that name, Lady Sif,"

"You are! You are Loki! Loki Odinson of Asgard; son of Odin, son of Frigga, brother of Thor! Brother of Baldur!" She shrieked, unable to stop the tears that began to roll down her cheeks. "Companion of Fandral, Hogun, and Volstagg; and my companion too, mine as well!"

"I killed him," he hissed lowly; in this he knew for certain. "And I shall kill them all as well, and you, you Lady Sif, will be my sword!"

He did not hesitate any longer, broaching the distance between them, and firmly kissing her; which invoked another spurt of violence that almost caused them both to tumble over from the sheer force of it. But he held steadfast onto her, until she slowly, by dribs and drabs grew compliant under his care.

Gradually her hands slid away from his and hung limply by her sides; when her body swayed underneath his attention, it was only then that he finally pulled away, and studied her face. He smiled maliciously at her disoriented state, before he hoisted her into his arms, and cradled her close to his chest. She would fight him no longer, he was sure of that.

"As I told you before, Lady Sif, every king does deserve a queen," he laughed. "And chaos deserves its war."

His eyes swept the beachside once more, before he walked towards the tear, and pulled her into the darkness, the nothingness that lay between the realms.


	17. Chapter Sixteen::Without You I'm Nothing

**The Art of War**

Chapter Sixteen

(Without You I'm Nothing)

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**Author's Note: **So I've actually been putting off writing this; I rewrote it several times, and I do realize some of these chapters haven't been up to par in which case I apologize. I don't even think I'm happy with this story at all. But it'll get done nonetheless.

This chapter's named after "Without You I'm Nothing" by Placebo. There are two versions and the one featuring David Bowie is the best. And any reason to mention David Bowie (on his birthday no less) is a plus.

* * *

Tony found peace of mind in inventing; when his mind was stimulated, it was far easier to disregard the many emotional problems he'd experienced of late. It was a welcome reprieve from the unending drunkenness and the shameful outbursts of both anger and sorrow. When he was elbow deep in his inventions, he felt like himself again instead of that broken individual that he'd inevitably transformed into.

It had been a solid day and a half, since he barred himself in his workshop. He locked everyone out, ignored the concerned telephone calls, bypassed any from SHIELD, and focused on fixing the repulsors for the Mark VII. Since they were strangely ineffective against those doombots, he'd chosen to upgrade them and focus on power.

Once he was finished with that, he still needed to fix his helmet, move onto finishing up the Mark VIII, and devote a good portion of time on rebuilding the Mark V. He had plenty of work to be done, and it appeared as if he had plenty of time to do it. Well, unless the world conveniently decided to end anytime soon.

But he would leave that problem to SHIELD for now; until things were far too dire to ignore. And he knew they would somehow get a hold of him, when things had gotten to that point. Fury wasn't about to forget his little declaration about Iron Man being on duty, willing and ready to kill some Antichrist ass.

Tony meant it too; it hadn't just been a spur of the moment, emotional fueled exclamation. He had meant what he had said; even though he feared being the one to do the deed, but if push came to shove, he was ready to make that sacrifice.

It didn't matter that he was in love; hell, it was the last thing that did. His feelings couldn't outweigh the entire planet; he might have been a narcissist, but even he could see that the world didn't revolve around him, and it wouldn't end on his account either.

Loki, or whatever the hell that _thing_ was, would have to die. There wasn't any way around it; and if Tony had to shoot him out of the sky, then he'd have to suck it up and just live with himself afterwards. Because he had already caused enough damage with his fling with Loki; and he wouldn't let things escalate to the point where everyone died, just because he couldn't bring himself to kill him.

Pausing for a moment, Tony let out a long suffering sigh; he managed to keep those thoughts at bay since he'd gone to work, and now he was being confronted with them again. Of course, those thoughts had been on the peripheral of his mind; he couldn't just forget about them completely. But it had been nice to just disregard them, instead of getting psychosomatic on them.

And there were plenty of things to think about; for one, he was faced with the reality that Loki actually hadn't been dead in the first place. Not to mention, he might have very well been the one who killed Baldur while returning to Asgard, which in turn set the apocalypse into motion.

But not only that, Tony had to take into account the many things Sif had said. The most pressing, to him anyway, had been the physical differences that she had pointed out during the SHIELD debriefing. While he had lied and claimed that he couldn't see any changes in him beyond the S&M get-up; he had seen the physical transformation in Loki.

They were subtle, almost undetectable, but Tony had been very close to Loki. He had studied his face innumerable times, to the point of obsession; and so once he was given the opportunity to look at Loki without any hindrance, he had seen the differences.

He couldn't be sure about the height thing, since his own height increased while in the suit; but he could see the amplified pointedness of Loki's features, the prominence of his cheekbones, and the change of his eyes. Those eyes that had always been crazy to a degree, but never to the point where they scared Tony; and he could freely admit it, he was scared.

He was scared by what he was forced to see. He was forced to accept that even though Loki was alive, it wasn't his Loki that was. This person, god, _demon_ was someone else entirely; it may have lived in Loki's skin, but there wasn't any sign of Loki in it.

It was a paradox really. Loki was Loki, but in the same breath he was not. From some angles, from a distance even, Loki had been _his_ Loki. He'd fallen apart because it had been _his_ Loki, who'd pitched Doom's head at Cap. It had been _his_ Loki that hadn't spared him a single look, and half-embraced America's golden boy. And it had been _his_ Loki that leveled out Moscow.

And yet, it really hadn't been him at all. His Loki might have been cruel, but would he have done all those things? More importantly, to Tony anyway, would his Loki have just disregarded him after all they had been through? After they had made an enemy of the world, no less Asgard as well?

Tony couldn't be certain, albeit he wanted to say no. His Loki wouldn't have forgotten all of that; he couldn't forget dropping his defenses, and allowing Tony to see him in heightened intimacy or even forget trying time and time again to protect him from SHIELD.

So the only conclusion he could come to, was almost on the same wavelength as Sif's. That hadn't been Loki at all; whatever that was, or whoever that was, wasn't the same person. Not by a long shot.

Dropping the gauntlet carelessly to the workbench, Tony reached up and gripped his hair. He made a frustrated noise, and managed to not scream or cry or destroy something. That would have been counterproductive when he had made so much progress; and he hated to be counterproductive, even if he was prone to those practices.

_"Sir, Mr. Hogan would like to have a word with you," _Jarvis spoke up, as if he could actually sense Tony's frustration. _"He claimed it to be an emergency."_

"Asking for a raise is not an emergency," he scowled at nothing in particular, still keeping a death grip on his hair. "Tell him I'm busy, and if he really wants to renegotiate his contract, we'll do that when the threat of the world coming to an end has passed."

Jarvis went quiet, no doubt relaying the message; which would normally make him smile, but even something that witty couldn't make him even remotely happy. Not when your beautiful, god of chaos was now the Antichrist.

_"Mr. Hogan said it involves Lady Sif," _

"I am not talking him up to her,"

_"She has gone missing, sir," _Jarvis quickly supplied.

Tony furrowed his brow, letting those words sink in. His mind was fast to conjure up reasons why Sif was gone. Many of which were very reasonable; for one, Sif could have been hiding somewhere in the house, or even ventured outside with one of the other Avengers. SHIELD did need her help after all; so maybe she just hadn't informed anyone of it. Secondly, she could have wandered off for a walk or something, after being cooped up in her room for so long.

There were an infinite, innumerable amount of reasons why she wasn't where she was supposed to be. Not to mention, Happy could have been overreacting; which he tended to do when he found someone to his liking. So this really was no different.

"Let him in," he finally said, and really didn't have to wait very long for Happy to make an appearance.

It was obvious that he'd been waiting at the top of his stairs; and now he practically barreled through the workshop door, his face an unattractive color of purple. Now this drew even more concern from Tony, but he managed to mask it well enough; that was until Happy opened his mouth.

"Boss, I am so sorry,"

"Sorry? What are you sorry about?" He asked very slowly.

"I did something bad, Boss," Happy said, scrubbing both his hands over his face.

"What exactly did you do, Happy?"

"I don't know what I was thinking, I should have, and well I should have thought it over. But I didn't and now-"

"Happy, what the fuck did you do?!" Tony yelled, slamming both his hands onto the workbench's surface. "If you don't tell me in two point five seconds, I'm going to get this repulsor and blast you with it!"

Happy turned another unpleasant shade of purple, which meant he was equally frustrated by the situation as much as Tony was; maybe even more. Since he was the one who'd come to Tony, exclaiming he'd done something bad.

"Well, Sif wanted me to take her somewhere early in the evening. And hey, I thought no harm in doing that, you know."

"Where did you take her?" Tony managed to keep his voice neutral, but he knew he wasn't going to like where this was going.

"She wanted to go to Malibu Lagoon," Happy sighed, again rubbing his hands over his face. "And when I dropped her off, she told me to go on ahead, and to come back within the hour. And I did come back, like forty-five minutes after I dropped her off. But she wasn't there."

Before Tony could even begin to process this newfound information, Happy pulled something free from his pocket, and slid it across the work bench. There were actually three items, all of which were small daggers no longer than two inches; maybe even less.

Tony picked up one, examining it, immediately drawing to the conclusion that they had to belong to Sif. The engraving on them was similar to the many pieces of armor he had seen that ranged from Thor to Loki; not to mention her own, which while not as heavily ornamented still possessed similar attributes.

"Where did you find these?" He managed to keep his voice neutral, even though his heart had started to beat as fast as a freight train.

"On the bench, covered in sand," Happy swallowed. "That big stick she carries around, I found that too. I forgot it in the car though; and, well Boss there was blood on it. Not a lot, but I know blood when I see it."

Calmly he laid the dagger back onto the workbench, attempting to attain a Zen-like state by taking several deep breaths and counting back from ten. But neither of those things actually happened; in fact, he surprised himself when he brought both his fists down as hard as humanly possible onto the workbench, and sending several nuts and bolts rolling off the table.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck," he screamed at the top of his lungs, before leaping down from his stool, and kicking it so hard that it careened with another table. "How could you be that fucking stupid, Harold; is it hereditary or that just your own personal contribution to humanity?!"

Deep down, Tony realized Happy couldn't be blamed for whatever the hell Sif had been up to. Except it was far easier to thrust the blame on him, when Sif was nowhere to be found; hell, it was far easier to yell at someone who was actually alive, since who the hell knew of Sif was at this point.

Sif was his only link to sanity at this point. She was the only one who knew what to say, what to do when he was teetering closer and closer to the edge. And sometimes she even let him get one foot over the edge, before he sobered up to his own stupidity; which was exactly what he needed.

He didn't need a babysitter, he didn't need a mother; he needed someone who knew when enough was enough, and could reel him in when he was too fucked up to do it himself. She had, somehow, become his rock; and now she was gone. She was just gone.

"Bring me the spear now," he demanded, before slamming his fist into the workbench again. "Or is that beyond your skill set too?!"

Wordlessly Happy turned and ran up the stairs; which provided Tony with another opportunity to scream at the top of his lungs. His rage blinded him, for the time being, from the pain in his hands; and undoubtedly the guilt he'd feel for being a downright bastard to Happy.

But all he could think of at that moment was that Sif was gone. And not only was she gone, she must have been ambushed by someone. There was no other explanation to why she'd drawn out any weapon, or even speared someone without good reason. Not to mention, she was near the tear in space; which either meant that it was now opened, and permitting people to come in and out; or someone knew she'd be there.

He racked his brain for any feasible explanation, which didn't point to Sif being put in harm's way; but he kept drawing a blank. He kept thinking about the possibility of her being dead; another death on his hands, that he couldn't prevent; another that was his fault.

"Son of a bitch," he breathed out, overwhelmed by a sudden tremor throughout his body. "What the hell were you thinking, Sif? What the hell did you do?"

The only response he received was both disorienting and oddly pleasant. The pleasantness didn't last very long though; not when he was faced with Happy, who was holding out the spear for his examination. And well, he would have to ask why Bruce was behind Happy, looking utterly flustered and out of his element.

Tony snatched the spear from Happy's hand, trying to combat several different emotions without driving himself crazy. For one, he did see blood on the tip of Sif's spear, and two Bruce wasn't a figment of his imagination but instead a very solid entity that was carrying a tote bag in one hand, and a beaten up laptop computer in the other.

They exchanged looks, which led Bruce to walk around Happy, and set his few belongings on a workbench farther away from the one Tony had just assaulted. Then Bruce saddled up beside him, freeing him of the spear, and started to examine it, as if he'd been here throughout the past few months instead of some impoverished country, helping the locals.

"You can catch me up on everything that I missed. But why don't we examine this blood first." Bruce gave him a reassuring, but small smile, before turning his attention onto Happy. "Mr. Hogan, if you don't mind I'd like to spend time alone with Mr. Stark."

"Tony," Tony interjected, although numbness began to supersede his previous anger.

"Okay, if you don't mind leaving Tony and I alone for the time being, I'd appreciate it," Bruce replied, which seemed to do the trick.

Happy reluctantly walked back towards the exit, shooting Tony one final look of regret before ascending the stairwell and disappearing out of sight. Once he was gone Bruce turned to Tony, offering another smile but it didn't meet his eyes.

"I'll swab down the tip of the spear, and we'll analyze it to see what we find. But first and foremost, let me clean up your hands; you'll only contaminate the sample otherwise."

"My hands," he repeated only to look down to see both hands were bleeding.

Bruce set the spear aside, taking it upon himself to look through several cabinets until he found the first aid kit. After he went through the supplies inside the kit, Bruce managed to maneuver Tony back onto his stool, and made good work of cleaning up his hands.

Tony cringed but didn't pull away; his mind was consumed with another cluster-fuck of emotions and so many thoughts that he was becoming disoriented. He didn't know exactly what to worry about, what to think; was he supposed to worry about Sif and her fate? Or was he supposed to worry about Loki and what he inevitably was up to? Or should he be worrying about himself and his sanity?

"If you knew of this shit, you wouldn't be so nice, Brucey," he whispered out, once Bruce began to wrap up his hands. "You'd probably Hulk out and I'd deserve it."

"I've skimmed over the SHIELD report," Bruce returned. "And trust me; I don't hold anything against you, Tony. Although, I hope you don't mind if I peruse some things in your lab; I think it'll be better if I handle the blood sample, while you collect yourself."

"No, that's fine; excellent. Do what you got to do." He returned, although his mind began to wander again; and he was just glad that Bruce had turned his attention onto the tech in the workshop, so he wouldn't see several angry tears escape his eyes.

Despite his best intentions, Tony knew that things wouldn't get any better now or later. He had a one way ticket to hell and there was no delaying it.


	18. Chapter Seventeen :: Mind Over Matter

**The Art of War**

Chapter Seventeen

(Mind Over Matter)

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**Author's Note: **This chapter was particularly hard to write for me; for whatever reason, I couldn't articulate it as well I as I wanted to. But I wanted to get it out (it isn't too bad, I don't think), since it seemed like I might have been neglecting it in favor of my other story.

Anyway, I hope you enjoy it and feedback is always appreciated. And this chapter was named after "Mind Over Matter" by Diary of Dreams.

* * *

The most primal instinct within him reared its ugly head; he felt it take hold, entwine him in a suffocating embrace, and draw him closer to pale and supple flesh. His fingers grazed the canvas set in front of him, only pausing in his ministrations when a hitched breath captured his attention. But soon he returned to his exploration, feeling that insatiable stir inside of him.

His body hummed, alit with an electrical current, temporarily silencing his need for death and destruction. In fact, he could only seem to react bodily rather than mentally; his higher faculties were no longer useful to him, and instead had been replaced wholly by his need for touch and taste.

He ran his hands further along the lithe body before him, and buried his face against the jut of a hipbone. Sweet, otherworldly scents emitted from her; scents that he once knew very well, as if he explored and enjoyed gardens of enchanted flowers and greenery in his distant past.

Deliberately he rejected any recollection that threatened to break through to the forefront of his mind; it was useless to remember things, insignificant things. Instead he pressed his lips against skin and opened his mouth to taste it. Another breathy sound erupted from above him, before hesitant and jerky hands carded through his hair and held him close.

Warmth accumulated in the pit of his stomach, roiling desperately. It had been sometime since he touched another, mayhap several centuries. He could not determine the duration of time; although the want was there, the need to ravish was extraordinarily imperative, and his intent was clear.

He dragged his hand upwards, along a wickedly thin waist, over the harsh angles of a ribcage, and finally to a swell of flesh. His fingers lingered momentarily before he drew his hands along the same path that they had just traversed, and settled them back onto her hips.

The grasp in his hair increased infinitesimally, in no means rooting him to the spot. He lifted his body and climbed further up; his tongue tracing whichever patch of flesh at his disposal, before coming to a halt at the meeting of two prominent clavicles.

His eyes settled onto the goddess of war's face; the pointed albeit soft contours and the subtle flush that painted her cheeks. There was something deeply gratifying about it, after such an unpleasant encounter that they first had, and he couldn't resist the urge to encircle both his hands around her neck.

He held steadfast, grinning at the sudden intake of breath, and the way her eyes met his in panic and a hint of acceptance; mayhap more acceptance than anything else. He pressed a kiss to her lips, feeling the warmth inside of him spread through his appendages, and more suitably to the lower half of his body.

Her hands flew to his, similarly to what had occurred on Midgard; but she did not claw him or attempt to flee from him. For there was no escape in sight; and it was evident for all intents and purposes, that she would never try to flee him. It was not an assumption either; it was a fact.

"War, mayhem, they are the same thing. Our natures are no different, my dearest." He pressed his lips to the corner of her mouth, reveling in the way her hips involuntarily jerked. "You know that as well as I do, right?"

There was a moment of confliction on her face, although it was only that - a moment before it quickly dissipated into nothingness. The only motion she made, to prove that she understood him, was a curt nod; which was enough to spur him onto placing another kiss onto her mouth.

She was compliant under his care, returning the kiss despite his hands still remaining firmly around her neck. In fact her own hands stroked at his bare forearms and settled at the crook of his elbows. He melded further into her, urging his tongue into her mouth, and was rewarded with the same treatment; although she proved to be far more eager than he originally anticipated for.

Her hips jerked once more, attempting to find his. He, however, had different plans and raised himself onto his knees, separating their bodies by only mere inches, finding immediate gratification at her wanton squirms, even as her windpipe was being closed shut by his hands.

"My queen, in due time," he uttered against her lips, slowly releasing her neck, and smiled by the desperate rasp that racked her body.

But he found that his words were no match for his baser needs. Even as he attempted to maintain control, his body had another prerogative altogether. He lost control of himself, permitting another force to take hold of him. He kissed her hungrily, no longer considering decency or even pride for that matter. Rather he kissed her in a way that would stave away the burn.

He lifted her by the hips, wordlessly urging her to wrap her legs around them and to relieve the distance in between them. He felt rather than heard the moan that came from her lips, and he devoured it like a starving man.

Curving his hands around her, he held steadfast onto the swell of her buttocks; it took very little to maneuver himself against her and he found his caress had been effective in arousing her appropriately. However, before he could even attempt to diminish the space between their bodies entirely, a disjointed and fuzzy recollection struck him.

The smell was suddenly upon him, in what he could only describe as some kind of spirits (although it couldn't possibly be from Asgard) and sandalwood and something else – motor oil? His brow furrowed, confused by what such a substance even was and how he would know its stench; which was coupled by the peculiarity of it being unearthed at such a crucial moment.

Except his body would not allow him the liberty to unravel the meaning behind it; the burn proved to be impossible to ignore. She too would not allow him any time to think; a wanton whimper drew him back to the present and he made good use of his position.

Another sound erupted from the goddess of war, loud and pleased, as he fully sheathed himself inside of her. The feeling that consumed him was impossible to articulate appropriately. This was both familiar and strangely new; his mind spiraled and undulated towards an undetermined point in time, where the significance of intimacy had transcended what was currently ensuing. But the memory dissolved before it even begun to form.

His fingers tightened into her flesh, to the point of bruising. With a fluid movement, he pulled free of her body and jerked back in, which set off a chain reaction of pleasurable noises from the goddess's lips as he repeated the action, and sent electrical currents zigzagging up his spine.

She lifted her hips to meet his pace, heightening the sensation a tenfold. He expelled a heavy breath, before releasing his hold on her and resting his hands on either side of her head. The new angle sparked another surge of heat through his body and jarred his mind once more.

His vision waved, darkened for a split-second, and he was struck by an on-slate of snapshots. None of them made any sense and appeared to be out of sequence. He recalled a tee-shirt with the words _Iron Maiden_ splashed across the front; then there was a sparkling city with neon signs, unmarred by his hand that always sought destruction. And then there was a brilliant blue light, overpoweringly bright, and embedded in a well-toned chest; whose chest exactly, he was not sure.

For some unknown reason, his body quivered involuntarily and a shuddering breath escaped him. The sensation seemed to intensify, willing his hips into a disjointed and hurried manner; as if that blue light held some hidden meaning beyond some of the other memories that rose and dissipated from time to time.

It was like that voice; they must have been connected, _they had to be._ And both voice and light seemed to drive him into a frenzy. The body underneath him responded to his ministrations; her hips met his point for point and the moans that tumbled out of her mouth were glorious; but it was nowhere near as satisfying as _that voice._

There were no words to discern anymore, it was as if the darkness consumed them. But there was ragged breathing in his ear, highly masculine and rugged; and he felt like he was being crushed by some phantom weight. Crushed by the enormity of the sensation; for he knew it was significant, due to the fact that the ghost of such a memory would not leave him be.

His movements were becoming far more erratic, searching for that satiation that he knew lay in her body; mayhap wanting to thwart what was on the verge of unearthing inside of him. Whoever was the cause of this, he did not know; but he knew that he didn't want to find out either.

Languidly her arms ran along his bared sides, before she grasped onto his shoulder blades, rooting him to the present. He refocused his attention onto her flushed cheeks and the way her face contorted with pleasure. Another spike of electricity consumed him and he kissed her hard and relenting, until she struggled away to breathe.

He nuzzled her temple, breathing in that exotic floral scent in some concerted attempt to push those other thoughts away. They were maddening things and only proved to distract him entirely from his goal and his most carnal of needs.

The goddess arched underneath him, almost on the verge of it being unnatural; she dug her nails into his skin, dragging them downwards to rest at the small of his back, as if to urge him even deeper into her body. He remedied it with another speedy and uncoordinated series of thrusts that continued to build the pressure inside of him.

It was growing to the point of madness and both of them were becoming desperate. They rutted against one another, seeking that attainable point, which reared up those unnecessary recollections in dribs and drabs. But they seemed to sharpen with every jerky movement of his hips and coincided with her nails digging into the swell of his buttocks.

Then it struck him so suddenly, he almost ceased to move. The word, no name, drummed through his head erratically almost like a mantra of: _Starkstarkstarkstarkstarksta rk_. His body reacted to it unlike any other stimuli that he drew from the body underneath him. His breath came in short, ragged spurts and perspiration ran down every inch of his skin.

He latched onto her jaw, sucking and tonguing it, a conscious choice to silence any noise that might slip from his mouth. The sensation continued to steadily increase, now in time with the mantra in his head that ricocheted off the nothingness and blackness that consumed every part of him. He grasped onto it almost desperately, while something attempted to reemerge that was horrifyingly familiar and unfamiliar at the same time.

Feelings struck him in rapid secession, lightning fast and almost disorienting; abandonment, glee, sadness, apprehension, mischief, ecstasy, rage, _love_ hit him and sent him teetering over the edge. But nothing was as powerful, all-consuming as the face that splashed across his vision in quick secession.

The face, the name were one; they meant something, mayhap everything. And yet he couldn't hold onto it; the pressure suddenly hit its peak and jolted him forward until he was spending himself powerfully as the goddess's body tightened around him to a suffocating proportions.

She cried out in the old language, as her nails broke his skin. She sagged underneath him and it took a considerable amount of willpower to withdrawal from her without collapsing onto her. His whole body buzzed with the after-effects of his climax and the memories that undulated and faded.

Slowly her eyes opened, heavy-lidded and a shocking and unnatural color of blue, and stared at him with unrelenting devotion; his fingers traced along her jaw before he drug them along the underside of one of her breasts.

"Now you will tell me everything you know about those detrimental mortals," he heaved, feeling strangely disconnected. "The ones in which you had taken company with."

His fingers roved again, before they delved between her thighs. Both of her hands clung to his wrist, swiveling away and towards his touch simultaneously. He pressed a chaste kiss to her lips, now in touch with the humming darkness that veiled whatever recollections that had been unearthed.

The haze of climax had begun to dissipate, taking with it things that he very well should know but couldn't conjure up again. Although that hardly seemed substantial now; he had to learn about those bothersome mortals whom clearly were aligned with that creature he beheaded.

"I-I only know of one," she shuddered, locking her thighs around his hand.

"Pray tell,"

"He is," she moaned shamelessly. "Called the man of iron; Tony Stark."

He paused in his ministrations, struck by that awful familiarity again. His mind uncovered that face; a strong face that looked internally conflicted and outwardly carefree at the same time. A face that could smile so brightly that it could cease some of his rage, if only temporarily; and he had seen that man not so long ago. He had been the missing piece of his memory, the missing mortal during his time in that icy tundra where a city once stood.

"Stark," he uttered the name, withdrawing his hand from her, and climbing to his feet.

She panted something irrelevant in response, as he moved away and allowed his mind to wander accordingly. If he could draw information from her about Stark, then perhaps he could take advantage of it. Despite such mortals only being a hindrance to him; he certainly did not like the frequent interruptions while he went about his mayhem.

This held potential; he was growing almost bored with simply destroying cities and slaughtering mortals so easily. Mayhap he could manipulate Stark into betraying his fellows, if only to stave away the tedious business of waiting for the moment of reckoning to arrive.

His lips slowly curled upward as he wandered farther into the dimension, in which held his domain. He had plans to enact and now they would align with this mortal, whose face seemed to have been ingrained into his memory from his previous lifetime.

Whatever the connection was between them was irrelevant now. But he was determined to take full advantage of it, even if he had to destroy the little mortal in the midst of it. And he knew that it would come to that; mayhem always followed him, after all.


	19. Chapter Eighteen :: Nothing Else Matters

**The Art of War**

Chapter Eighteen

(Nothing Else Matters)

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**Author's Note: **So this chapter came rather quickly in comparison to the last. And I found that my excitement to share it, dictated my decision to keep it to myself for a few days. I also have to say I really like how this chapter turned out (I'm sure that'll change, but currently I do like it).

This chapter was inspired by "Nothing Else Matters" by Apocalyptica; albeit you could always listen to the original Metallica version if you wanted. I just prefer the instrumental version instead.

Anyway I hope you enjoy!

* * *

It was disconcerting, really. Things had gone quiet, too quiet. Every major city in the world had gone on high alert, and each branch of the military was ready to strike; but there was nothing to counteract. There weren't any mysterious, unpredictable attacks; it was as if the past few weeks were just an awful dream. And that made everyone worry; Tony was particularly uneasy and found that sober living wasn't for him.

His drinking spells were few and far between, but they still had a way of cropping up unexpectedly. Without any forewarning, Tony would be struck by a vivid memory which ranged from Afghanistan to New York to Howard to Loki. They weren't strictly entwined with the current situation; they were random and abrupt, and alcohol was the only way to silence them.

Bruce's presence however kept them at bay for the most part. His presence was soothing and non-judgmental; they were able to work side-by-side as if nothing was different between them. Bruce never asked questions and Tony never had to justify himself, even when he'd drag himself towards the liquor cabinet and raid it. Bruce, albeit, was quick to intervene when things were spiraling out of control; which made him a slightly different presence than Sif had been.

Bruce was more nurturing in comparison, probably because of the Hippocratic Oath; and well, he knew when Tony had enough solely based on a medical level. So at least he wasn't toeing the line of alcohol poisoning anymore, not when he had a live-in doctor and science buddy.

Currently they had been working shoulder-to-shoulder; Bruce had been analyzing the blood sample that had been on the tip of Sif's spear, while Tony wordlessly prepped another blood sample to be compared to the first. He had figured out, once his emotional outburst ceased, whose blood that could have been and scrounged through his closet to find a particular dress shirt that he hadn't gotten around to disposing of.

The analysis had taken longer than it should, mostly because Bruce had been in and out of SHIELD headquarters for a good chunk of his time. Not to mention, Tony's propensity to fall victim to his memories didn't help the cause either.

"Well, your hunch was spot-on," Bruce pushed his glasses up, before shooting Tony a sideways look. "Both samples are a match and definitely not human. Although they aren't similar to Thor's blood either; but to be fair, the Aesir undoubtedly have a different genetic make-up, and maybe their blood doesn't follow the same code as say mine and yours."

Tony didn't say anything; instead he elected to stare off at an undetermined point. Despite the probability of his hunch being proven positive, he still didn't find any pleasure in it turning out that way. Most of the time he would have walked around like a peacock, blabbing his mouth off on his superior intelligence; and yet he found that all he wanted now was a drink.

"But genetics, well that isn't necessarily important right now. Our big concern is that Loki has Lady Sif and while I rather keep it between you and me, it's better if we inform SHIELD about it. Fury won't be exactly pleased that we didn't immediately tell him; but the consequences will be worse if we keep it to ourselves." Bruce continued, although Tony only caught every other word.

"There's nothing we can do," he returned glibly. "I'm sure SHIELD made you sit through hours of video footage, then a frame-by-frame of said video footage. So you already know that Loki is crazier than he was beforehand. And with all that crazy, you can bet he killed Sif already; since, you know, they weren't exactly on the same page."

"The last thing I want to do is pry, but Tony it would be a lot of help if you could tell me more about Loki." Bruce redirected his gaze to the workbench, just as Tony shot him a look that bordered on venomous.

That was still a touchy subject and one Tony refused to broach. SHIELD had made several requests since the Moscow mission, for him to tell an in-depth account of his time with Loki. But he had ignored them all, determined to keep those memories to himself.

Maybe things had gone from strange to stranger; from hell to god only knows what, but he'd be damned if he aired out his dirty laundry to Nick Fury. Even though much of his life had been on display for years, Tony didn't want anyone to know the mechanics between him and Loki, as much as he wanted to protect his relationship with Pepper (when they had been together anyway).

"How the hell will that help?" He asked, attempting to keep his hostility to a minimum.

"The hypothesis that Loki isn't entirely himself is only that – a hypothesis. Unless we can prove it, it'll help everyone out to have raw data on Loki. And not only the bits of information that we'd gathered from Thor when he was on Earth. You, Tony, are the only one with insight into Loki and that could prove invaluable." Bruce explained, before removing his glasses.

"Well, our biggest link to Loki is gone, Brucey. Sif was the one with all the tidbits of information on him not me."

"Maybe Lady Sif had information pertaining to his strengths and weaknesses, but you're the one with an intimate understanding of him. If anyone knows what makes him tick, that would be you."

"Can't we just send Thor a telegram and get his ass down here to take care of his psychopathic brother?" Tony shot back, despite knowing that there was no plausible way to contact Thor.

If that had been the case, Thor would have undoubtedly intervened with the mass destruction that had taken place by Loki's hands. He wouldn't have casually sat back and watched it happen; no less, he probably would have come for Sif, instead of letting her play babysitter to him.

"Tony," Bruce sighed heavily, pinning him with pleading eyes. "I don't care what happened between you and Loki per se. What I care about is if you have some insight on him, which could potentially be used against him in order to save the world."

"Do I have to spell it out for you, Brucey? That _thing_ is not Loki; I know you aren't going to accept it without valid proof. But I can tell you unequivocally that isn't the crazy-ass god we all know and hate. That _thing_ is something else entirely."

"You're right; I'm not going to accept that especially when you have insight to who Loki is. If you didn't then you couldn't say without a shadow of a doubt, that that person wasn't him."

"How can I make myself anymore clear," Tony chuckled, raking his fingers through his hair. "That god or devil or S&M enthusiast is _not_ Loki. So any information I have would be useless to SHIELD."

Bruce leveled him with a no-nonsense stare; it was heavy and suddenly judgmental, similar to the stares that came from the other members of the Avengers; but it was more than that. For some reason, Tony felt the disappointment expel from Bruce and he found he didn't like it.

Tony had been on the receiving end of those sorts of looks for his entire life. His ability to do the right thing had been skewed from a very young age; to the point, where he'd simply didn't care to do it anymore. Not until Afghanistan anyway.

"Maybe I'm just crazy or downright evil," he began softly. "But I love him and I can't accept that he's turned into that _thing_. It's literally an impossibility; there's a blocker on my brain and even if there isn't anything different between Loki and that _thing_, I just can't accept it, Brucey."

Rather than dismiss his logic, Bruce simply laid a hand on his shoulder. He knew that Bruce couldn't possibly understand any of it; but what mattered was that he wasn't being a judgmental prick like Cap or Romanoff or Barton would be.

"There's nothing much I could tell you about him, even if I tried. It wasn't like we exchanged life stories or anything; the whole fucking thing was based on stupid emotion and physical attraction. And maybe it was fueled by the forbidden aspect of it; since SHIELD would, and should, have skewered my ass.

"The only thing I could even tell you is that the motherfucker is strong as hell. He weighs a metric ton, which you wouldn't imagine by how emaciated he looks. And somehow he managed to weasel a golden apple out of some guy named Heimdall; but other than that, that's the extent of my knowledge. I mean unless you want to know what turns him on, which I suspect you don't want to know."

Even that quip felt half-hearted and painful; Bruce didn't even bother to return with something witty either. There really wasn't a point, when it probably would have come back and hurt him. Regardless of what anyone said, Tony assumed it would hurt like a knife to the heart; and his grasp on his alcoholism was meager at best.

An awkward silence fell between them; Bruce released his grasp on him and instead began to fidget with his glasses. Tony had to quiet the urge to rush across the workshop and grab a bottle; he felt exposed and even if it was only in front of Bruce, he was actually sickened by it.

He'd exposed himself enough for a lifetime during the past few weeks, and he didn't want to continue the trend. He wasn't the touchy-feel type after all; so he was humiliated by his emotional outbursts, especially the tears that were oftentimes uncontrollable.

"Why do you think that isn't him?" Bruce piped up finally.

"Sif pointed it out to me first," he supplied with a shrug. "Very subtle differences in his appearance; you know the kinds of things you wouldn't notice, unless you were up close and personal with him."

"If you don't mind me asking specifically, what differences are we talking about?"

Tony shut his eyes, in order to conjure up Loki's likeness; and it scared him to a degree that it didn't come as quickly as he would like. And that only meant that his recollections were growing dim, which inevitably meant everything he knew about Loki would dissipate into nothingness eventually.

"His features are sharper now than they were and his eyes are a dark green, bordering on black. And Sif said he was a lot taller than he normally was; but I didn't really notice that, not when I was surprised, to say the least, about seeing him again." He shrugged again, refusing to look at Bruce.

The probability of such subtleties being proven factual was slim. But Tony knew without any doubt that they were there; even if SHIELD would dismiss them alongside Bruce. And they had every right to dismiss them because they technically meant nothing in the long run.

Loki was Loki regardless of what Tony said to the contrary. Hell, he was bright enough to realize that maybe both he and Sif were just seeing things; maybe both of them had needed to cope with the fact that Loki was the fucking Antichrist. Either way, it was still impossible for him to believe that Loki was conscious to what he was doing.

Maybe it was just blind faith, hope even; and that too bothered him. Considering who they were dealing with, made it borderline dangerous to believe that Loki was possessed by an outside entity. After all, he was the god of mischief and proven himself capable, no less willing to kill and destroy on a whim.

But even so, Tony grasped onto that lifeline; since it would be far easier to kill some unknown monster in Loki's skin, than it would be to actually kill Loki. So he had to believe for now; even if he was sorely wrong.

"Nothing's impossible," Bruce chimed in sheepishly and Tony knew it took some concerted effort to keep the skepticism out of his voice.

"Thanks Brucey," he patted his back, finally giving into that little voice inside of him that craved for an escape.

It was almost too easy for Tony to walk across the workshop to collect a crystal decanter of Macallan. He didn't even bother to get a glass; there had to be one in the master suite, no doubt from his last drunken escapade.

"I need a break," he offered, not even bothering to hide his intentions. "You know to clear my head."

Bruce watched him and it killed Tony to know he was being judged again. He knew he was letting the guy down, but there was only so much he could take. He was inherently weak; no matter how he portrayed himself, there was a vulnerability to him that he never could strengthen. And why should he even try when alcohol was so much easier?

"Tony, do you think Loki would approve of this?" Bruce asked so quietly, it almost went unheard by him.

"Pardon me?"

"Honestly, do you think Loki would approve of you drinking so much? It's not to say that anyone could stop you, but maybe if you think about the person you're drowning yourself in booze for, well maybe you'd realize how destructive it is."

"I'll never know," Tony replied brusquely, struck by sudden and unjustifiable anger. "And even if he didn't approve, you're right no one has the power to stop me."

Before Bruce could retort, Tony already slipped into the elevator, and began his ascent. He tightened his hold on the decanter, swiping his free hand across his face. He knew already that he'd have to apologize to Bruce, even though he imagined the guy would brush it off. Since Bruce was so damn understanding, too understanding, and wouldn't begrudge him of anything.

Leaning against the side of the elevator, he contemplated for the briefest of moments what Loki would say about his excessive drinking. No doubt the bastard would scoff, call him a weak and petty human and probably laugh at him. Laugh in a way that cut right through him, and made him irrationally hard.

His thoughts, thankfully, were cut short by the lurch of the elevator. He stepped out into the hallway and made it into his bedroom; he locked the door behind him before he dropped onto the edge of his bed, and uncorked the decanter with a pop.

"Jarvis, cue up some sappy music that'll make me want to die," he mumbled, raising the decanter to his lips, and drinking straight from it. "Something Papa Stark would listen to at cocktail hour."

_"Right away, sir," _Jarvis replied several moments later, cueing up exactly what he wanted in terms of sappy, suicide worthy music that Howard would approve of.

Tony downed more scotch, momentarily allowing his thoughts to wander into forbidden territory. Sadness was so contrite now as was anger; he spent far too much time feeling sorry for himself and he knew he shouldn't, but there was only so much he could take.

So for the briefest moment, he permitted himself to think of Loki in a different way. He shut his eyes and forced his mind to sharpen, in order to visualize Loki's face flushed in pleasure, and his body arched and spread open in front of him.

"I'm a fucking masochist," he huffed but kept his eyes shut nonetheless. "Really fucking sick too,"

His unoccupied hand kneaded at his denim covered groin, expelling a sharp breath as the visual grew stronger. It had been way too long since he felt anything in the realm of arousal, and by god it was unjustifiable when the world was on the edge of ending. But it felt so much better in comparison to all his other guilt-ridden emotions.

Tony shuddered as he squeezed himself, as if to imitate how it felt to be inside of Loki; which in turn only made him suddenly very hard, painfully hard. The rapidity was almost stunning to him; his eyes shot open to stare into his moonlit room, but his memories were overlapping the present. The thought of Loki lain out in front of him was strong now, and he never wanted to lose it.

Clumsily he sat the decanter beside his feet, before making good use of the button and zipper on his jeans. He stuck his hand halfway down his boxers, grasping his erection and stroking himself roughly and erratically. And god it felt both demeaning and liberating; it was a nice change of pace to feel something positive for once.

His eyes slid closed again, allowing himself to gasp in pleasure at the thought of Loki bent over and letting him fuck him hard and fast. His whole body quaked with tremors, as his hand worked almost violently; that was until something cold made contact with his cheek.

Pausing in his ministrations, Tony opened his eyes, half-lidded, and was confused by his own reaction. He felt oddly calm, despite the possibility that his heart might actually beat right out of his chest, taking the arc reactor with it.

"I was waiting for you," he rasped out.

"I know," Loki returned slowly, as his fingers danced along his jaw.

"I knew you'd come back," he lied, although the serenity in his voice didn't fluctuate at all.

"I've come for you," Loki affirmed, while tilting his chin up to meet his eyes that were strangely warm and so Loki-like that Tony swore he might go into cardiac arrest after all.

Loki maneuvered one long leg between Tony's thighs, while he placed his knee onto the mattress beside his hip, and draped himself around him like a blanket of darkness. Tony pulled his hand free but didn't dare touch the being that was becoming rapidly more and more like Loki with every passing moment.

"I'll always come for you, Anthony,"

"Baby, fuck baby," Tony choked out, before his mouth was covered by Loki's.

The circumstances behind this were irrelevant; every moment of complete and utter heart ache ceased to exist. Nothing else mattered but Loki, _his_ Loki. _His _Loki had finally come back to him.


	20. Chapter Nineteen :: Chrysalis

**The Art of War**

Chapter Nineteen

(Chrysalis)

* * *

**Author's Note: **First and foremost, I'm sorry.

This chapter is named after one of my favorite songs (and I've been waiting to use it) called "Chrysalis" by Diary of Dreams.

* * *

His hands fisted into the goose-feathered pillow behind his head, while he attempted to regulate his breathing that had turned shallow and uneven. His entire body quivered and ached, hyper-sensitive to touch and even more so to the feline-like tongue that dragged itself across abdomen.

Words really couldn't describe the physical and emotional collision that he was being subjected to; in fact, he felt disoriented and unhinged by it. He felt too much then felt too little; it was like a pendulum effect and he was incapable of stopping it. He was out of control and it was because of the beautifully sculpted hands that grazed his bare chest, that tongue that continued to tease him thoroughly, and the knowledge that this was Loki.

Months of worry and self-loathing had all but dissipated, once the fallen god had appeared in front of him. Once his taste washed over him and his smell, which was far more leather and blood than before, enveloped his senses; he had simply fallen into submission and forgot everything that should have mattered, but really did not.

Tony allowed himself to be stripped by Loki, was compliant as he urged him to relax onto the bed, and could only clench his teeth as, in so little terms, he worshiped every square inch of his body. Loki nuzzled, massaged, kissed, and sucked every part of him as if he wanted to memorize everything there was about him. And he allowed him to, never once questioning what had happened beforehand and what was currently underway.

The world could have ended at Loki's hand for all he cared, and it would mean very little so long as Loki continued his ministration with agonizing slowness. If he continued to run his hands along his chest, teasing the skin around the arc reactor, and pressing wet kisses against his sides; then he could care less about the fate of the world.

He moaned lowly as Loki's tongue trailed upward, creating a pathway from his left side to the spot underneath the arc reactor, and began to nibble ever-so-softly at the skin. His hands roved from his shoulders, along his arms, and covered his hands that were still clutched into the pillow.

"S-shit, baby," he managed to say, meeting Loki's wide and inquisitive eyes; eyes that were so unlike the ones captured in the video footage from Moscow.

Any trace of that monster was gone; it had been stripped away only to reveal Loki, mischievous and somewhat homicidal Loki. But more importantly, it was _his_ Loki; the one who Tony hadn't any doubt, loved him unconditionally.

Despite the battle armor that was dull and battered silver, the midnight colored cape adorned with feathers, and the body suit made of tight fitting leather; this was still his Loki who was now straddling his hips and distributing his weight accordingly so he wouldn't crush him.

Loki's hands, gloved hands, remained over his briefly before they moved and trailed back to his chest and encircled the arc reactor. He smiled in a way that might have drawn pause from Tony, had he not already known that smile was more mischievous than lethal; and he found himself relaxing into his touch, when he never really allowed anyone too closely to the mechanism that kept him alive.

"You make me feel _alive_," Loki suddenly said, before he leaned forward and was nose-to-nose with him. "Someone so petty, so breakable, and yet I crave you so."

Tony loosened his grip on the pillow, cautiously reaching up to cradle Loki's face. His skin was cooler than he remembered, to the point that it could have been categorized as clammy; and then he realized, almost as if an afterthought, that his features were sharper and far more perfected than before.

Any sentiment that he might have had was stuck in his throat; he didn't know how he felt about this revelation, or maybe lack thereof. But it didn't stop him from pressing a kiss to Loki's mouth, keeping his eyes open all the while, almost to ensure that he wouldn't disappear into thin air.

Regardless of that insignificant change, which had meant so much previously, Tony found that he didn't care anymore. His Loki was still here; the same one who was kissing him back with tenderness that only appeared while he was so close to climax, and his better judgment was skewed beyond belief. And yet he allowed him such a luxury at this period of time.

Drawing away from his mouth, Tony studied his face and those eyes that were half-lidded with want. He stroked the hollows of his cheekbones with the pads of his thumbs, and licked his lips in order to taste Loki more.

"Let me make you feel alive," he said thickly. "Let's take off all this shit, and I swear to god I'll make you feel more alive than you ever have."

"Mortals," Loki half-laughed, but still he raised himself onto his knees, and reached for the clasp that secured his cape into place.

The heavy black material fell from Loki's body, falling across Tony's legs, before he quickly threw it onto the floor. Without the over-dramatic piece, Tony attempted to ingrain every part of the body suit into his memory.

There were several straps and metallic pieces that adorned the suit; there were at least two dozen rectangular pieces of dull silver that ran up either side of Loki's thighs as well as both his sides. His chest piece was black and fitted well against Loki's actual chest; and appeared as if to be one cohesive piece rather elements of many.

Tony grazed his hands across the chest piece, pressing against it and inciting a pleasurable grunt from Loki; which in turn, sent a pang of want into his groin. In fact, he found himself terribly aroused by the way the leather showcased his lithe frame, and couldn't help dragging his hands along the god's parted thighs.

"I kind of want to see your ass in this," he barked out a laugh, almost on the verge of nervously. "That fucking cape does you no favors, buddy."

Wordlessly Loki moved away from him, and for a split-second Tony was filled with dread, only to stand and turn his back to him. Every muscle was evident in Loki's back; the straps in the front met in an X between his shoulder blades, although nothing hindered the sight that Tony really wanted to see.

Nothing could have stopped him, even if all the forces of nature descended on him, from sitting up and running both his hands down from Loki's shoulder blades to his perfectly sculpted ass. His hands lingered across it, appreciating the curvature and how the leather seemed to become a second skin.

Loki jerked slightly but continued to stand stark still, while Tony massaged and squeezed him in sudden and irreversible want. His breath hitched as he maneuvered onto his knees, before he buried his face in between those prominent shoulder blades, and continued to fondle his ass until he swore he was reaching his limit.

He bit into one of the straps, as his hands roamed long enough to find Loki's hips and pull him back against him. He wrapped his arms around him, holding onto him for the first time in months. And that was enough knowledge to sober him from his rampant running lust.

Something gnarled and unpleasant scratched its way up Tony's throat, accumulating into a shaky intake of breath. He was struck by those awful and painful emotions, and the reality of how awful it had felt to actually lose someone he held so dear.

It had been far different than when it had been his parents or even Obie. Losing Loki had been so much more personal, intimate; it had felt like his soul had been torn asunder, that the piece he'd been missing for so long had been pulled and twisted away from him. And he hadn't, couldn't, cope with it; he didn't want to be alone.

He buried his face back between Loki's shoulder blades, trying to get a hold of himself. But he wasn't given that luxury; Loki slowly pulled away from him, turning around to face him with an unreadable expression.

"It was hell," he managed to say, all the while trying to combat those emotions from hitting the surface. "I thought you were dead. And you left me; you actually ran back to Asgard to die."

Loki shifted his eyes, looking elsewhere. His cheek visibly twitched, before he closed his eyes; but even that brief interlude didn't seem to conjure up anything that Tony wanted to see. Rather it only seemed to unearth confusion and a series of disjointed thoughts that slipped from Loki's lips.

"Darkness; fire; it burned so much; and fate would have me; you cannot dissuade fate, after all; but he deserved to die, horribly; for I will not die; I am light to you petty mortals; and I shall shine more brilliantly than you can even imagine." Loki rambled; face shifting from one emotion to another manically. "Brother Baldur, he would have killed me; he threatened me and I killed him. _I killed him_."

"Listen darling, sweetie-pie, honey bunches, apple of my eye-"

"Stop calling me such ridiculous things, Stark!" Loki suddenly yelled, hitting Tony with a bout of déjà vu; but what was even more telling was the stunned look that crossed over Loki's face.

"They're called endearments, "

"Besides you're all I got now," Loki supplied as if in a trance, before his face returned to a blank slate.

Just as abruptly as the tirade began and the memory was reenacted between them, Loki was upon him and kissing him breathlessly. Tony moaned into his mouth, submitting to the tongue that slid into his mouth and ravished him so thoroughly.

His hands reached up, grabbing onto Loki's biceps, and holding onto them for dear life; he felt like he was drowning, as the god sucked the air right out of him, and hungrily took every pleasure in the world from him with that clever and talented tongue of his.

Somehow Tony found himself thrown back into the bed, straddled by a nude god whom was now suckling on the sensitive spot of his neck, and making him writhe with renewed pleasure. He moaned as he felt Loki's flesh against his, and the way his long fingers trailed towards the V of his groin and tickled the flesh until he rutted like a wanton animal.

"S-son of a bitch," he gasped out as Loki's fingers finally made contact with his erection, grazing along the shaft before creeping upwards until they were encircling the head, and falling away just as quickly.

But the game had only begun; Loki's thumb slowly replaced his fingers and rubbed along the head of Tony's cock. He moaned unashamedly, shutting his eyes as Loki's thumb ran across the slit until he was leaking precum.

His hips worked of their own volition and began to buck wildly. It had been far too long since he'd found sexual gratification in anything, let alone was touched by someone else; namely Loki. And he found that he was losing control of himself already, which would have mortified him in the past; but now he only delved head-first into the feeling of being touched by Loki.

Almost as if Loki could read his thoughts, he unhanded him and lifted away from his body. Tony opened his eyes only to find himself face-to-face with the god, who had boxed him in underneath his body. Loki was on all fours, placing his hands on either side of his head, while his knees remained beside his hips; and it was impossible not to make a guttural noise, as he looked down to see how swollen and aroused he was too.

He forced himself to look away, in order to stare directly into Loki's eyes. They were now in-between colors; no longer were they the vibrant green of old nor were they dark and menacing. They were a combination of the two, veiled by lust so apparent that it made Tony's erection twitch.

"Only a mortal," Loki murmured thickly and wantonly. "Just a simple, petty mortal; and yet this flesh and bones yearns for you."

"I hate your stupid Shakespeare-speak," Tony tried to lift his hips to press against Loki to no avail. "But for god's sake, it's making me harder because it's you."

Loki leaned inward and kissed him hard, which Tony returned with as much enthusiasm as he could muster; he pressed his tongue messily between his lips, coinciding with his hands tangle into his longer hair.

It might have been the sloppiest and wettest kiss Tony had ever been on the receiving end of; and yet it was that uninhabited sensibility that made his hips piston up and down, in hopes of finding some sort of relief. Albeit Loki denied him still, arching his back and shifting his body away when he believed contact was imminent.

Pulling away from the kiss with an audible slurp, Tony panted and found satisfaction by how debauched and unhinged Loki appeared. Spittle trailed down his chin and his skin was pink and flushed; his hair was an absolute mess thanks to Tony's hands, and he couldn't help but love that it was no longer perfectly coiffed and unmarred.

"For god's sake, let me fuck you," he declared as he moved one hand from Loki's hair, and moved down his torso. "I need you, Loki. Please."

Loki's eyes scrunched closed, almost as if he was in pain; but the moment passed quickly, and he was soon shifting to lie beside Tony in submission. After all, there was really nothing more to say beyond the affirmative, and well Tony's answer was already laid out in front of him.

Pleasure seared every part of Tony's body at the sight, but he forced himself to roll towards the bedside table and yank open one of the drawers. He carelessly tossed out the TV remote control and an issue of _Scientific American _that somehow ended up in there, before he found his treasure trove of condoms and lubrication.

Grabbing onto the first tube within his reach, he got onto his knees, and appreciated the sight in front of him. Loki was in the midst of wiping the spittle off his chin, splayed brazenly across the bed. His thighs lay open and his erection was curved and swollen against his stomach; his balls were heavy and when Tony cupped them in one hand, he made Loki jerk and hiss.

"Sensitive," he almost chuckled, running his thumb along them, and reveling in the way the god arched his back and pressed himself further into his touch.

Tony massaged his sac slowly and deliberately, before he pressed a gentle kiss to the underside of Loki's cock. The combination drew a surprised noise from Loki, which only compelled Tony to drag his tongue along the prominent vein and suckle obscenely on the side of his erection.

"Never gave a blowjob before," he said in between sucks. "Probably couldn't get your dick down my throat anyway, since it's fucking huge."

Loki only responded with another pleasure noise, the same one that sent a spark directly to Tony's groin. Knowing that he could hardly last very long under such circumstance, he drew away, popping open the cap on the tube of lubrication, and coating his fingers generously with it; since it had been months since they last been together.

His lubed fingers slid slowly down Loki's sac and perineum, which caused him to make the same pleasure noise that drove Tony crazy. With his free hand, he urged Loki's leg towards his chest, opening him up further so he could graze his fingers along his opening.

He teased the small ring of muscles slowly, pulling further noises from the god, until he pressed against it and slipped his finger halfway into him. He waited several moments before pulling his finger slowly out and then pressed it back in, repeating the ritual several more times until Loki's body began to respond and loosen, allowing him to slide another finger into him.

Tony pumped both his fingers into him, before parting them ever-so-slightly, and stretching him to accommodate to his girth. Loki was writhing under his ministrations, almost on the verge of becoming completely unhinged, which was strangely unlike him. Despite their previous sessions of intimacy, he never appeared so wanton and needy like this.

"Holy fuck," he moaned, pressing a third finger into him. "You're so fucking beautiful; you're opening up so fucking much for me."

Loki didn't respond verbally, although Tony hadn't expected him to, only pressing against his fingers in a fit of uncontained pleasure; which was emphasized by Tony hooking his fingers and touching what could only be his prostate.

Tony heard something rip just as Loki's body clamped around his fingers, and made it somewhat difficult to remove them fully. Once he pulled free, he peered up to see that Loki had ripped his pillow open and sent feathers everywhere, even tangled in his dark hair.

If it had been anyone else, the scene would have been entirely ridiculous. But it was Loki, a well-known god, and there was nothing ridiculous about it. In fact, he looked almost angelic with how the feathers haloed his head, coupled with his flushed cheeks and half-lidded eyes.

Something clenched at Tony's heart and he couldn't help but move up his body, kissing him gently but projecting every thought and emotion he ever had behind it. He kissed Loki until he was sure he understood how much he missed him, mourned for him, _and loved_ him.

Drawing away from him, he positioned himself on his side next to Loki, and hooked his arm underneath his thigh. Loki moved naturally with him, shifting closer towards him, until Tony's erection was pressed against his opening.

"You don't even know how much I love you," Tony breathed out, catching his gaze that was still in between colors and almost unbalanced.

"Never forget that I feel," Loki uttered quietly, coinciding with another twitch in his cheek.

Rather than psychoanalyze his words, the same that he'd spoken before the other gods took him away, Tony slid slowly into the incredible heat that was Loki until he was fully sheathed inside of him. And the feeling, both physically and emotionally, was indescribable.

Loki threw his head back into the mess of feathers, gritting his teeth but unable to silence himself entirely. Tony, in turn, latched onto the side of his jaw, suckling and kissing if only to stave himself from fucking him senselessly.

But his resolve soon ended and he drew halfway out of Loki's body, before thrusting in hard. Sparks of pleasure roiled through him, which made him repeat the action but far slower and more controlled; and that too seemed to have struck a similar reaction from Loki, whose body tensed around him perfectly.

The pace that Tony set was slow and hard; he savored the way Loki responded to him, twisting at the waist and lifting his hips, and tensing around him as he thrust into him fully. His breathing came in short and sharp spurts, as he moved; he tightened his grip around Loki's thigh, and maneuvered closer, in order to thrust deeper into his compliant body.

"Look at me," he groaned, drawing out of Loki, and refusing to thrust in until he followed his demand.

Loki's eyes fluttered open, turning his head so that he could look Tony in the face. They shared a look that was both lust-addled and something else, so emotionally complex that it didn't have a name. Maybe it was love or maybe it was multiple things, unnamed and even stronger than that.

Whatever it was was inconsequential. Tony thrust hard into Loki, igniting a furious roar of heat in both their bodies. Loki hissed out something in what could only be Norse, reaching down and grabbing his neglected and weeping member and pumping it in time to Tony's thrusts.

Their eyes remained glued to one another's, even as powerful ripples of pleasure overcame them; Tony moaned loudly as Loki's body tightened around him, although he never lost sight of his movements. He managed to keep his movements slow still, which only seemed to intensify the heat that was threatening to burn him both.

"Faster," Loki suddenly demanded, almost on the verge of desperate. "Anthony, faster,"

"N-no, fuck no," he half-laughed, angling his hips, and pushing into him as deep as he could go.

Loki threw his head back once more, moaning and writhing, which sparked further pleasure in Tony. It was becoming harder to remain focused, especially when Loki tried to fuck himself onto his cock with a wild roll of his lower body.

His restraint finally broke as Loki intentionally tightened around him, to the point where he almost saw stars; and he soon was fucking his needy hole like a man possessed. His hips worked of their own volition, jerking back and forth at a heightened speed until he was entirely lost to the sensation of tight, inviting heat.

He dug his nails into Loki's thigh and moaning obscenely at the sound of their flesh slapping together. Loki too was making impassioned noises that were only driving him further and further to the brink.

"Fuck, fuck," he hissed, uncaring if anyone heard him or the groans of the bed from his crazed movements. "I love you so fucking much."

Loki made a muffled noise, which Tony realized was due to the fact that he'd stuffed his fist between his lips, in order to keep himself quiet. His other hand worked in tandem with Tony's thrust still, pleasuring his swollen cock that had gone red from arousal.

"Tell me that you love me," Tony suddenly said, stunned by his own plea, but even more so by the desperation in his voice. "Baby, please; just this once."

He thrust harder, faster into Loki until his fist dropped from his mouth, and he expelled a noise that was so broken and sad that Tony almost stopped his movements. But his body refused to listen to his high faculties and he continued to fuck him, coming close to desperate.

"B-baby, please,"

"I-I-I,"

"B-baby, I love you, I love you," Tony nuzzled Loki's cheek, struck by emotion so hard that it only propelled his erratic movements further.

"L-L-Love," Loki gritted out, arching his back almost completely off the mattress. "I-I-I love y-you,"

The declaration was pained and conflicted, and sent Tony over the deep end. He came hard and fast into Loki, jerking uncoordinatedly and riding out his orgasm as Loki tensed around him once more, and he too was coming all over his own stomach.

They rutted against one another, desperately seeking every second of pleasure that they could get until they could find no more. Tony's body shook with the force of it, as he slowly slid his softening member out of Loki and falling back against the mattress in complete and utter exhaustion.

He breathed heavily and felt a stitch in his side; in fact, he felt sudden waves of pain all over from the uncomfortable position he'd been in only moments before. But he ignored everything, instead turning to look at Loki who was staring up at the ceiling and attempting to catch his breath.

Except there was something strangely disconnected about his expression; he looked aware and unaware, pleased and displeased, and almost on the verge of being disoriented. His eyes flickered from one point on the ceiling to the next; the shades of green seemed to heighten and dampen like a dying firefly until he bolted upright, bringing both hands to rake angrily through his hair.

Tony forced himself to sit up, reaching out to run a hand across his side, only for Loki to jerk away as if he'd been burned. But what really concerned him, scared him even, was the noise that rumbled out of Loki's throat; which sounded like both a laugh and a sob, and reminded Tony too much of a scene from the_ Exorcist_ to be comforting.

"Darling, sweetie-pie," he managed to say, keeping the fear out of his voice. "Loki,"

"I don't know who I am but I am not Loki!" The god suddenly screamed, murderous and dark. "Such a dreadful, vile creature as that; I am nobody!"

Suddenly Loki launched himself off the bed, wild-eyed and drenched in perspiration and slick. His hands remained tangled in his hair, as if he was trying his damnedest to keep from it rolling off his neck. And Tony couldn't deny or even hide how terrified he was; he was scared, so scared he thought he might suffocate from the sensation.

Loki paced to and fro, before pausing and looking down at himself in undiluted disgust. That look didn't disappear either, despite a silver veil of magic encompassing his body, and magicking his armor and leathers back on him.

"L-Loki," Tony stuttered out, only to be met with that same disgust and confliction.

"I killed him," Loki, no that _thing_, uttered in sudden glee. "I killed him, you petty and insignificant mortal. Brother Baldur only attempted to! He was stupid enough to believe if he were to kill the vessel that he would kill the darkness! That he could kill the _soul_, and yet I stand before you now and where is your Loki; where is that being you love so?"

"Y-You," Tony swallowed hard, feeling his entire body quiver.

"Mark my words, he is dead. Or he will be entirely so; for I loathe unexpected guests." That _thing_ quaked violently, his cheek twitching, before those familiar black flames entwined along his legs and lapped at him until he was fully consumed and gone within a blink of the eye.

Pain, deep seeded and severe, traveled throughout Tony's whole body and he didn't even realize, for the second time in his life, that he was sobbing on the verge of hysterical. Because it was in that moment that his flicker of hope, of faith was extinguished entirely; and he knew that Loki was really dead.


	21. Chapter Twenty::The Beginning is the End

**The Art of War**

Chapter Twenty

(The Beginning is the End is the Beginning)

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**Author's Note: **This was a difficult chapter to write; I'm not sure if I'm pleased with it. But it needed to be written to finally get things in motion, and that's exactly what it has done.

This chapter's named after "The Beginning is the End is the Beginning" by the Smashing Pumpkins.

And just to let everyone know, I am updating via my Ao3 account faster than here; this chapter was up for almost a week already on Ao3. So for faster updates, I'd suggest checking there (if you'd like, of course).

* * *

The darkness was all encompassing; it embraced him, banished any unsavory thought that might lurk on the outskirts of his mind, and re-centered him and the fate he had yet to fulfill. Mayhem, mass destruction, and death were now in the forefront of his consciousness, and he held steadfast onto the bone-rattling, blood-boiling significance of it.

His purpose, the meaning behind his petty existence, thrummed through his veins stronger than before. Everything that had previously derailed him, that insignificant and vile human in particular, slowly faded away into oblivion. Those unfortunate, despicable recollections were soon no more; they were consumed by the darkness, infinite and strong.

The fragments of a life since past, tendrils of images and sounds were abruptly cut off entirely. It was the first time that he'd been fully consumed by the darkness; he hadn't any further ties to the outside world, beyond what his goal and ultimately his destiny was. And he found peace in that; utter and complete nirvana.

"It's time, my lord," the feminine voice, hardened by his personal magic, declared to him suddenly. "Your son, the serpent Jörmungandr, has been found. As has your son, the wolf Fenrir."

Slowly he opened his eyes, greeted by the darkness he was so fond of. It extended infinitely in front of him, beyond the reaches of sanity; in fact, it thrived in madness and instability. He focused momentarily upon it, allowing those words reverberate through his head.

Something akin to elation and even sadness began to develop inside of him; excitement for what was to come, and sadness for his children's imprisonment. After all, he would no longer have to remain idle; nor would he have to play bothersome games with Midgard any longer. Once he released Jörmungandr from his imprisonment, then he would set Midgard ablaze and turn his focus onto the other realms; more importantly Asgard and Jotunheim.

"Where has Fenrir been imprisoned?" He asked quietly.

"The isle of Lyngvi," Lady Sif, the goddess of war, uttered in return.

"As for Jörmungandr, where has he been imprisoned?"

"Underneath the Norwegian Sea of Midgard," she replied.

He tilted his head, before he decided upon his next course of action. Releasing Jörmungandr took priority, since he frequented Midgard over a period of time; and he could easily see to its demise soon thereafter.

Once he had accomplished that, he would release Fenrir and lead the Jotun into Asgard; and his purpose would finally reach its climax. He would make Midgard, Asgard, and Jotunheim fall one after the other; then he would focus his attentions onto the other realms. But with Asgard in shambles, the lesser realms would be far easier to topple in comparison.

"Then that is where we will go," he said, unable to banish the smile that began to grace his lips. "I shall release Jörmungandr and once that is done, I shall call up Hela whom will resurrect her army for my disposal. And Midgard will be no more; doesn't that sound glorious, my queen?"

He glanced over his shoulder, observing her from head to toe. No longer did she wear the reds and silvers of her previous leathers and armor; rather she wore black accented by the same tarnished silver as he did. Her helm extended to her forehead and upward into a pair of handsome silver horns, which accompanied his helm quite nicely indeed.

"Glorious indeed, my lord," her lips curved into a wicked little grin, as he stood from his meditative position on the ground.

"Then let us not dawdle any longer. The time is now; and I mean to rid myself of Midgard in a timely fashion." He strode up to her, brushing her cheek with the back of his hand. "After all, Asgard still awaits us."

"But what will you do about those meddlesome mortals, my lord?" She quirked an eyebrow, which made him pause in his ministration. "No doubt they'll be aware of any behavior they deem untoward when it comes to their realm."

The vague recollection that he had of those mortals, attempted to ebb its way into the forefront of his mind; swirling and disjointed snippets threatened to override the darkness which had again settled in its rightful place. But the memories drew up short; he couldn't recall faces or names, in fact there was very little he could conjure up at all at the moment.

He scrutinized the goddess of war, who in turn met his gaze point for point. There wasn't any discernible fear upon her face; she was hollow and doll-like. Her brilliant blue eyes looked uncharacteristically out of place, and he supposed a far more natural color would have been more suitable; although which color remained a mystery.

"They are mortals for a reason, my queen," he muttered, before taking her chin in between his index and middle finger. "They cannot withstand me; for I have only been toying with them from the beginning, to stave away my boredom. But that is no longer the case; I intend on ending this realm once Jörmungandr has been released from his confines."

"Even the man of iron, my lord?" She asked matter-of-factly.

"I haven't a clue of whom you speak of. But that is no matter; for my purpose, _our_ purpose will be fulfilled now. So let's dawdle no longer; I must release my son." He offered his gloved hand to her, which she took readily, and allowed him to summon the Hel flames, which sprung from the ground and entwined around their bodies slowly but surely.

Within a matter of moments, the flames had fully engulfed them both. There was no pain, although the temperature had risen exponentially; the only other change was how they moved away from his chambers between realms, and reappeared upon a shoreline with the cool air whipping unforgivingly at their cheeks.

Heavy grey storm clouds covered the sky, as large snowflakes fell from their underbellies, and speckled the coastline white. The ocean's waves slid harmoniously across the sand and lapped at their feet; although that was inconsequential, since the scenery held very little interest to him at all.

Something rumbled, roared underneath the tide; mortal ears were unable to hear them, but he did hear them and something akin to fondness echoed through both his mind and body. Instinct told him what he needed to know; his son was below the water's surface, at the very bottom of the ocean's depth.

Slowly he reached to unhook his cape and allowed it to fall to the sand at his feet. The wind assaulted him unrelentingly, more so without the cape's protection. But the cold never proved to be bothersome to him; he knew that ice and something even more savage lay underneath his skin. Or it had so very long ago; somewhere where his consciousness could no longer reach.

"Remain here," he uttered, keeping his gaze on the tide. "I'll return once I have freed Jörmungandr."

"Make haste, my lord," the goddess replied promptly, although devoid of any true emotion.

He walked into the tide slowly; the water was frigid and lapped over his boots and attacked him further as he continued into its depth. Soon enough he was knee deep into the water and the sounds below the surface were going infinitely louder.

The slither and struggle of an enormous entity, echoed in his ears; it superseded the roar of the ocean and the howl of the wind. Even the chaos within his mind was momentarily silenced by Jörmungandr's attempts for freedom, which had been ongoing for century upon century.

Soon the tide engulfed him fully, as he conjured a spell to allow him to breathe without any trouble; frost-bitten water was the only thing that existed as he was drug down by the ocean's insistence. He allowed himself to sink into bluish-black darkness, which reminded him fleetingly of Jotunheim and its desolation; the land which bore him and bred him for the end of all ends.

Sea life drifted past him, unconcerned by his presence; although many swam wildly past him, lest he attempt to disrupt their lives as man tended to do. Leisurely and elegantly, he kicked his feet, forcing his body to shift until he was upside down, in order to plunge further downwards where the rumbles were far louder and even more desperate.

He swam with vigor, following the darkness that grew blacker and wider. As he delved deeper and deeper, the many different aquatic species dissipated and disappeared. For the sounds broke the lucidity that the ocean permitted; and they were frightful things, which would have a lesser being quaking in the fear of the unknown; but he felt far differently. He felt anticipation of the highest order.

The darkness soon became impenetrable, even to his eyes. He could only rely on his ears, which directed his movements towards the bottom of the ocean. He propelled himself further and further until the clank of mighty chain links were only an arm's length away.

Suddenly there was a great shift; the water pushed at him, attempted to force him backwards, before a golden-yellow eye rolled open to stare at him. He maintained his distance for several terse moments, only to see a spark of recognition ignite in that oversized eye.

Something akin to both joviality and exasperation rumbled through the darkness. Jörmungandr's large body shifted, slithered and unfurled, which forced him further back by the water's insistence, until he could vaguely make out the serpent's head that was almost as large as a normal mortal's home.

_"Father," _Jörmungandr's hiss permeated his brain, rather than reached his ear; it was a bond between parent and child, and one that was slowly beginning to unearth as the moments ticked by.

_"I've come, my son. To free you from your bonds; for you shall bring forth ruin to Midgard and the kin that enslaved you." _He projected his words as Jörmungandr had; for even his magic could not keep him from drowning if he were to open his mouth to speak.

Once more Jörmungandr shifted, which brought the cool links of his bonds closer. He reached for them blindly, grasping onto one, before conjuring up Hel flames again. He concentrated on the flames pathway; until he heard the chains fall away and crumble against the ocean floor. But he was far from done; he was gifted with another link and another, which he destroyed within moments.

His hands pressed forward, devoid of magic, and grazed Jörmungandr's scales delicately, almost comforting. There was fondness that permeated from the large serpent, as there was gratitude for finally rescuing from such a fate.

_"Allow me to carry you to the surface, Father." _That rich hiss said inside his head, which he readily agreed with.

With some maneuvering, his hands fond purchase on a solid piece of metal firmly attached about his son's neck; no doubt its purpose was used in order to secure the chains to Jörmungandr's body. He slipped his fingers underneath the metal, as far as he could manage, before gently patting his son with his foot.

Slowly he felt Jörmungandr begin to slither upward, building up speed as he grew accustomed to his renewed range of motion; and soon the darkness ebbed away from his sight, replaced by the ocean and its inhabitants rushing past him in blurred colors and shapes.

He held on tighter, anticipating the break from water to air; although even he could not prepare himself for the shock and pain of breaking the water's surface so suddenly. Prickles and needles of pain shot through his body and he gasped loudly. Cold snow-speckled air made its way into his lungs, and sharpened his awareness considerably.

Standing on shore still was the goddess of war, the Lady Sif; her head was tilted back to take in the sheer size of Jörmungandr and perhaps the daft way that he clung to the metal cuff encompassing his neck.

His legs dangled and swayed as Jörmungandr moved closer to the shoreline, but drew up short of removing himself from the ocean's embrace. She watched them with piqued interest, before that familiar wicked smile, one that he frequently felt upon his own lips, spread across her face.

"My Lord, he is magnificent! A serpent worthy of war and chaos," she exclaimed loudly, jubilantly even. "An entity that shall bring ruin to this pathetic realm,"

Rather than respond to her accordingly, he easily pulled himself upward until he sat arrogantly atop of Jörmungandr's mighty head. He grinned, wickeder than even Lady Sif's, and laughed in a way that was both crazed and victorious.

While there were many more steps until he brought everything to ruin; this was one of the largest steps that he had taken thus far. He had unleashed his son, the one in which the Aesir had imprisoned for fear of fate. Fate had spoken to the dangers in which Jörmungandr was capable of causing; and fate had written, delicately and almost invisibly, that he would fulfill his destiny despite the Aesir's attempt to bind him to Midgard.

"My queen, it is only the beginning!" He chortled, electric with purpose soon to unfold. "And now my daughter, ruler of Niflheim, shall stand by my side to see the end of this pathetic mortals' realm! Hela show yourself to me!"

To punctuate his words, he rose to his full height; he felt suddenly delirious, on the verge of teetering off the edge of lucidity. He felt the darkness claw at him like a ravaged beast, dragging its sharpened nails up and down his throat, and cloaking his mind in disjointed and uncoordinated half-thoughts and emotions.

The wind whipped wildly around him, cooling the already frigid saltwater on his flesh and leathers, before something flickered and fleshed out in the snow flurries. Suspended in the air, horned and masked, with black-cherry colored lips was his only daughter. Her mouth quirked as she surveyed the scene; she lifted a hand, thumb and middle finger resting against one another, as if she was waiting for further instruction.

"Dearest Father, you have changed even more so than beforehand." Hela crooned maliciously. "The darkness has consumed you whole."

"The time has come," he returned. "I will need your army, for I mean to destroy Midgard now."

"This would explain why my brother has been freed."

"And why you shall call your army for me to lead."

"Oh how I have waited for those words, since you appeared in Niflheim; and you shall have my army, Father." Hela grinned wider than before, snapping her fingers and causing the earth to rumble forebodingly; and then there were hands clawing their way through the sand, and dragging out bodies of dishonorable warriors.

More and more appeared, pulling themselves from whichever tear in space that Hela had found (mayhap created with her extensive dark magic); until they stood along the coastline in droves. There were too many to count, but the number was insignificant; their prowess was by far more important, and exceeded a mortal's strength by a tenfold.

"Dearest Father, you have my army at your disposal," Hela bowed, still suspended in mid-air. "They are yours to lead, as am I."

"Then let us begin," he uttered darkly, before something snapped inside of him.

There was a white flash of energy that splashed across his vision, a familiar sensation; before everything turned black, and consciousness was no longer his own, but something stronger and more important than his entire being. Dare he say fate?


	22. Chapter Twenty-one :: Joy

**The Art of War **

Chapter Twenty-one

(Joy)

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**Author's Note: **I suppose this is the chapter before all hell breaks loose; not to mention we're drawing to an end as well. So thank you for everyone who'd continued to follow this story, despite all the ups and downs; all your comments have really pushed me to continue writing, even though I frequently questioned my writing ability and the direction of this story. In short, thank you once more. :)

This chapter is named after "Joy" by VNV Nation.

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_So why do I love when I still feel pain?  
When does it end, when is my work done?  
Why am I lone and why do I feel that  
I carry a sword through a battlefield?  
So why do I love when I still feel pain?  
When does it end, when is my work done?  
Why do I fight and why do I feel that I carry a sword,  
That I carry a sword through a battlefield?_

**"Joy"** - VNV Nation

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There were very few constants in Tony's life. Everything had a way of changing on him in a split-second; every emotion that he had flipped, morphed, and became something entirely different. He had a way of changing far too quickly for his own liking; and yet, there were always two people that reeled him in; made him feel like he wasn't the fuck-up that he truly embodied.

Rhodey and Pepper had shown up out of nowhere; neither questioned him, prodded him, or did anything to rock the emotional boat he was currently on. Instead, they did what they only knew how to do – they made him feel like a person again; a whole person at that.

Rhodey provided a New York style pizza and twelve pack of Miller Lite; while Pepper turned on a ridiculous movie and cuddled up to him, despite their nasty break-up and the even nastier knowledge on why it had taken place. And for that moment in time, Tony forgot everything besides the familial bond he actually had with them.

Even though both Pepper and Rhodey had a tendency to chide him, futilely attempt to keep him on the straight and narrow; their intentions were always well-meaning. And even before he was Iron Man and was simply a renowned jackass, they still had stood by his side through thick and thin. They had always been his biggest supporters; and they had yet to abandon him.

Tony sat in between them, tracing Pepper's spine through thin silk of her dress, as she rested her head beside the arc reactor; while Rhodey leaned forward to extract another piece of pizza from the box. All their eyes were on the TV ahead of them; although Tony suspected no one was really paying attention, not when there was an elephant in the room. But then again, when wasn't there an elephant in the room when it came to him?

To be honest, he was surprised by his own self-control. Part of him wanted to blurt out what had happened a week earlier; despite the fact, exclaiming to anyone about sleeping with a psychopathic Antichrist wasn't exactly something to be proud of, even if you were Tony Stark. But at least, that heavy burden would have been off his chest and he wouldn't have to pretend that he was okay.

Because he was not okay; he had forgotten what it was like to be okay. Ever since he'd gotten caught up with what had been the god of mischief, everything had gone downhill. His many accomplishments had been compromised; his livelihood had been questioned by everyone, including himself, and his emotions had been torn asunder.

Tony was sick and tired of feeling. He was sick and tired of drinking; he was emotionally drained to the point of pure and utter numbness. The shock of being intimate again with Loki, coupled with his crazy-ass shift into that _thing_, was enough to just kill every hope he previously held. And in a way, he would have preferred the alternative to this; that Loki was actually dead and gone. Just not in the mental sense but in the physical one as well.

"This movie is awful," Rhodey suddenly exclaimed, looking exasperated. "Who picked this anyway?"

"That would be Miss Virginia Potts to my right." Tony cracked a smile, although he couldn't be positive if it was a convincing one.

"Hey, I didn't hear any suggestions from your end." Pepper lifted her head, shooting Rhodey a warning look.

"Here's one; the first _Lethal Weapon_ movie." Rhodey returned, rolling his eyes at the groan that expelled from Pepper. "Excuse me, but that is the quintessential action movie."

"More like the quintessential eighties movie," Pepper returned, resting her hand against Tony side, as she leaned over to argue her point. "And not even that good of one on top of that."

"She has a point, Rhodey. I'm more of a _Die Hard_ kind of guy myself." Tony shrugged his shoulders at the look offense that spread across Rhodey's face.

For that brief interlude, it was as if nothing had changed. They were having a night in, which was fairly infrequent due to Rhodey's schedule and Tony's; since they both were trying to save the world to the best of their abilities. And that usually took a lot longer to accomplish than a nine to five job would.

Unsurprisingly, Tony oftentimes took those moments for granted. It was always in hindsight that he realized how much it meant to him to have Rhodey and Pepper spend their time with him. No less, to always stick by him through best times and the worst ones too. When everyone was condemning him, setting him up for failure, they were his staunchest supporters.

Part of him wanted to say thank you, despite already knowing that both Rhodey and Pepper would wave it off as nothing. They would probably even compliment the hell out of him, regardless of him not deserving it at all. He especially didn't deserve a kind word from Pepper; but he knew she'd be just as adamant as Rhodey until they were practically blue in the face.

Just as he parted his lips, on the verge of spewing out his gratitude, someone's cell-phone went off. Almost as if they were all synchronized, each of them began to pat their pockets, search the surrounding area for their phones, until the offending one was picked up by Rhodey.

"I have to take this," Rhodey said, suddenly at attention which meant one thing and one thing only: it was military business. "Do you mind if I go in the other room?"

"No, of course not; go on, buddy." Tony shooed him away.

"Sorry about this." Rhodey returned, before stalking away towards the gourmet kitchen; all the while keeping his voice down as he answered the call.

Once Rhodey was out of sight, Tony turned to Pepper whom had started to scroll through her customized Stark phone. But she quickly set it aside and offered him a small smile. It had been some time since they'd been left alone; longer since they actually spoke on an intimate level. And they still needed to have that sit-down about what had happened.

By no means did Tony expect Pepper to come back to him. He was exactly sure if that was what he wanted; although the appeal of it was enticing. After all, they had made so much sense; a lot more sense than whatever it was that he had briefly with Loki. Not to mention, he still loved Pepper and he would always love Pepper, regardless of what happened.

"We should talk, you know since James is off playing war games." He said, immediately trying to gauge what her reaction would be.

"You're referring to us." She replied, although the smile wavered on her face.

"I owe you a huge apology, Pepper. No matter what I say to you and no matter how much I mean it; nothing can take away the pain I made you feel. And God only knows that I wish I could; there's nothing else I'd want more."

"Tony, we've had a conversation about this already. You were just too hung over to remember." Pepper sighed, leveling him with a stern expression. "I don't know what goes through your head most of the time. You say I know you the best, but I really don't Tony. I really wish I could get inside your head, and figure out why you did what you did. But I don't even think you know yourself."

"And that's why you know me the best, Virginia." He smiled at her sadly, overwhelmed by how accurate that statement was.

Slowly Pepper wrapped her arms around him, reminiscent of all the many times that they'd been happy, and brought him in close for a trademark Pepper embrace. He hugged her back, finding instant comfort in her arms; and at that moment, he never wanted to let her go.

But the hug was short lived; Rhodey raised his voice in both bafflement and indignation, followed shortly by his returning footsteps. Pepper pulled herself away from him, raising her brows in question; although Rhodey remained firmly attached to his cell-phone, and was shooting off military mumbo-jumbo faster than even Tony's brain could compute it.

"I'll be there within the hour." Rhodey declared, finally hanging up. "Tony, I hate to leave now. But there is something that I need to take care of."

"Don't worry about it, Rhodey." Tony held out a hand, grasping onto the one that was immediately offered to him. "Thank you, for everything. And don't tell me it's no big deal; because it really is to me."

"Take care of yourself, Tony. I don't want to hear about any of your drunken antics, understand?" Rhodey gave him a stern look, timed with a comforting squeeze to the hand.

Tony offered him a smile, even though he wasn't sure if he could stay away from the bottle when he was all alone and floundering. After all, Bruce wasn't currently there to keep him afloat; since he'd been at SHIELD headquarters for a good fraction of the week already. And god only knew what he was doing there.

_"Sir, you have an incoming call from Director Fury of SHIELD. He has informed me that this is of the utmost importance." _Jarvis declared abruptly.

"Damn," Rhodey shook his head, which only meant the issue he was off to solve was undoubtedly the one Fury wanted Tony to get involved with too.

"No point on putting off the inevitable. Connect him, Jarvis." Tony eyed Rhodey, who only shook his head and was already heading for the door with another goodbye.

There was a moment of silence, before a screen with Fury's likeness appeared in front of him. Fury looked as calm as he always did; although the flare of his nostrils gave away some of his distress. But other than that, he appeared cool and calculated, and completely in charge.

Tony sat up, following Pepper's example. They both sat stark still, almost as if they were about to be lectured by the school's principal; which, in truth, wasn't that far from the norm. Fury did enjoy giving him a good tongue lashing; and quite frankly, he usually deserved it.

"Mr. Stark, I have a question for you and I hope I get the answer that I'm looking for." Fury skipped the formalities, clearly a man with a mission.

"Well, let's here the question first; because god only knows what you have up your sleeve, Nick."

"If memory serves me correctly, you had volunteered to help kill a motherfucking Antichrist and Norse god. And to be frank, we're going to need your help on doing just that." Fury stated bluntly, temporarily stunning him into silence.

His brain worked through the incredible tangle of memories, of blackouts, and of every drunken stupor he'd unfortunately put himself into. But there was no denying it; he had said something along those lines to Fury. It was just after coming toe-to-toe with Loki again in Moscow; and for some inexplicable reason, he thought he could pull himself up by the boot straps, and actually take on Loki; to _kill_ Loki.

"I did say that, didn't I?" Tony returned, unable to shake off Pepper's burning gaze.

"You most certainly did. So is Iron Man up for the task, after all? Or am I wasting my breath?"

"Oh, I have an answer for you, Nick." He took in a deep breath, before sending Pepper a sideways look that didn't do anything to change her worried expression. "Just tell me where to go and how fast I need to be there."

It would have been humorous to Tony to see how fast Pepper and Fury's faces shifted from one emotion to another; since both of them looked so damn surprised by what he'd said. But there was nothing funny about the matter; and despite the fact he was emotionally separating himself from the situation as much as he could, it was proving to be awfully hard to do.

The tears had dried up, the shock had turned into silent acceptance, and Tony reserved himself to put Loki into the same box that housed his helm. He wanted to contain his emotions to the best of his abilities and numbness had been the only thing that truly helped so far.

He had to accept that Loki was no longer in existence. He'd been lost to whatever entity that was now inside his body; and that destructive force needed to be destroyed one way or another. That _thing_ had taken Sif too, which only reinforced his need to help; even if it meant he'd die in the process.

"I've already sent the rest of the team to Norway. So that's where you'll need to touchdown, and you'll need to get there as fast as you can. I'm pretty sure this constitutes the end of fucking days now." Fury leaned back in his chair. "There's a motherfucking sea serpent threatening Western Europe, and soon enough it'll be heading our way. Not to mention, what appears to be undead Viking warriors are doing a pretty damn good job at attacking everything and everyone across Scandinavia."

"I wish I could feign surprise." Tony deadpanned, although his heart was beating like a jackhammer.

"To add insult to injury, Loki fucking Laufeyson is contributing to the mass destruction. And the motherfucker is not playing around anymore; this time he's playing for keeps." Fury said seriously; somehow even more serious than he'd been throughout the conversation. "We need to stop him at all costs. Do you understand me, Stark?"

"I hear you loud and clear, Nick. Send the coordinates to Jarvis and I'll be on my way." Tony stood from the couch, but was rooted to the spot by Pepper's hand around his wrist.

She shot him a look of utter desperation, as if she was already conjuring up the worst case scenarios; although he already beat her to the punch. He knew that he could very well end up dead this time around.

Without being instructed to do so, Jarvis disconnected the call; leaving Tony and Pepper to themselves. He didn't know how to feel about that revelation; mostly because he knew what was coming, and he always had a way of fucking up whatever stability that they had reestablished.

"You don't have to do this. I know you don't want to do this." Pepper uttered, tightening her grip on his wrist. "So don't lie to me; you know I can see through most of your lies."

"It's the last thing in the world I want to do, Pep." He admitted with a self-deprecating smile. "But let's be honest, I brought this onto the world. SHIELD would have blown the bastard out of the water, if it wasn't for me."

"Tony, please."

"Pepper, the world's going to end; and I don't mean in an over dramatic way. I'm pretty sure that crazy motherfucker is the Antichrist. And if we don't stop him; if _I_ don't stop him, there'll be nothing to come home to; not you, not Rhodey, not even Jarvis." he slowly pulled his wrist away from her hold. "I need to do this, Pepper. I need to fix everything I fucked up."

In that moment, Tony was hit hard, harder than any other time, with how much he fucked up. He'd been so self-centered, had thrown himself the world's biggest pity party, even went so far as to fall into the arms of the enemy again; and the people around him were suffering silently through it all. Pepper had been suffering over it, and she still was suffering because of him.

He leaned down, pulling her into a hug, and held her tightly. Because he knew now what he was really fighting for; it wasn't about him anymore either. He was going to kill Loki, whether he was compromised by some dark force or not, and he was going to do it for everyone he loved. But most of all he was going to do it for Pepper.

"I love you, Pepper. I just hope I never make you question it again."


End file.
